


The truncated love story of Smith and Wesson

by glovered



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-04
Updated: 2011-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-24 09:17:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glovered/pseuds/glovered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smith & Wesson bumble about on a case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written for the SDMinibang. Gorgeous art made by lightthesparks, found at her [Art Post](http://lightthesparks.livejournal.com/77463.html).

  
  

    
    
    Craig's list Seeking Employment  
    
    Date: 2009-03-30, 10:51AM
    
    PRIVATE SUPERNATURAL INVESTIGATORS
    
    
    
    
    
    Have a problem with ghosts?
    
    
    
    
    
    We are two guys who want to help you  
    
    with that. We can find the source  
    
    of your ghost problem and then exorcise  
    
    the spirit in a safe and clean way.
    
    
    
    
    
    Other skills include: expert at Mac  
    
    and PC, copy/fax,  
    
    typing 65wpm.
    
    
    
    
    
    Please contact Sam and Dean.  
  
---  
  
  
  
  

    
    
    to: craigslistresponse@list.com  
    
    from: jsparrow@gmail.com  
    
    subj: Are you serious?
    
    Are you serious.
    
    
    
    
    
    Ghosts?
    
    
    
    
    
    ????

| 
    
    
    to: craigslistresponse@list.com  
    
    from: your_moms_frontdoor@yahoo.com  
    
    subj: I am very interested
    
    Are you looking for a threeway?  
    
    Sure sounds like a threeway ad.
    
    
    
    
    
    If so this is my email.
    
    
    
    
    
    WRite back soon.

  
| 
    
    
    to: craigslistresponse@list.com  
    
    from: fullmoonster@yahoo.com
    
    Hi Sam and Dean,
    
    
    
    
    
    My name is Haleigh. I don't have a  
    
    ghost problem but I think there's  
    
    a werewolf in the area. Are you  
    
    guys for real?
    
    
    
    
    
    Haleigh  
  
---|---|---  
  
  
"Home sweet home."  
  
Sam gave the room a dubious look. "Really?"  
  
"It's nothing fancy, but it's not bad, right?"  
  
"Dude, this is  _way_  fancy."   
  
"Oh." So Sam wasn't pissed at his choice of hotel. Dean put his hands on his hips and surveyed the soft fabrics and pearl-colored wallpaper. "It is, isn't it?"  
  
Sam dropped his bag next to one of the queen beds and then went to check out the whole room. "It's bigger than my apartment!" he called.  
  
"Oh yeah?"  
  
"The bathroom," Sam clarified, voice echoing. "There's a jacuzzi tub."  
  
Dean knew this because he'd requested it special on the website.  
  
Sam stepped back into view, eyes narrowed. Dean arched an eyebrow and stood his ground, even as Sam crossed his arms and looked him over like they were still at Sandover and Dean was ignoring all signs of a haunting. "What is this, Dean?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"This—" Sam waved to the sconce lamps and the fresh flowers on the mahogany desk. "All of it. It's really nice, but how much did you have to drop for a place like this? I don't mean to start this partnership out being cheap, but finances are tight as it is, and without regular work they're only going to get tighter."  
  
"Look. We're both reeling from a rather hasty decision to leave our normal lives and set out on the road."  
  
Sam sighed. "I know it's weird. It just feels  _right_ , you know?"  
  
"And I'm not arguing. It's just—We've quit our high-paying jobs which provided full dental and health benefits."  
  
"Well, speak for yourself, but—"  
  
"We had nice apartments with security. We had nameplates in our office and a chance to move up on the corporate ladder...." Dean grimaced and put a hand to his side, the loss was drawing at him like a physical ache. He felt a little light-headed, in fact, and sucked in a breath between gritted teeth. "Whew, all right. Calm, calm, calm."  
  
He shouldered past Sam and into the bathroom where he turned on a faucet and took handfuls of frigid water to splash over his face and neck. Sam appeared in the doorway, ready with a hand towel and an uncertain expression. "Dude."  
  
"Anyway." Dean accepted the towel and patted his face dry. "We're two guys, on the road with no direction, barely even know each other, hunting down a werewolf—given the circumstances, I thought we'd just start slow."  
  
"All right." Sam nodded. "All right."  
  
This could be like a trial thing, Dean told himself. He went over to unpack his button-downs and hang them in the closet, trying to keep it together, loading up the hangers with shirts. This could be a one-week blip before he applied for work elsewhere. He had a hefty portfolio and stock options, and a degree in marketing. He would be fine.  
  
When he'd finished lining up his shoes, though, his breathing back to normal and a getaway plan firmly in place, after he had slid the closet door softly closed, he turned to find Sam taking a seat at the small table by the window.  
  
 _Techie,_  Dean caught himself thinking fondly, as he watched Sam ease his laptop out of its bag like it was something precious.   
  
  
  
  
They met Haleigh at a cafe. She was a little thing, needed protecting. Or at least that's what Dean decided up-front, but once he sat down he got this creeping feeling that said Haleigh was a black belt in just about anything and he scooted his chair back a few extra inches for fear she might presently hand him his ass.  
  
Sam, on the other hand, was leaning over the table, all close and earnest, making helpful doe eyes. "That sounds terrible," he said. "I'm so glad you haven't gotten hurt investigating this on your own. You say you started noticing the signs during the last full moon?"  
  
"Yeah." She bit the straw of her iced coffee and made damsel-in-distress eyes right back at him. It left a bad taste in Dean's mouth for no reason he could pinpoint. "I was in the forest, near the old warehouse on third. I heard noises and I came into a clearing and saw a wolf—" she shuddered. "It was turning back into a person, I think. It was so frightening."   
  
"You're handling this well," he noted.  
  
"She's obviously in shock, Dean."   
  
He watched Sam lay a sympathetic hand over Haleigh's on the table. The guy obviously really cared about people, and this girl was scared and didn't want to go it alone. Dean suddenly understood, for the first time since this crazy mess had begun, why he was here, why they'd given up everything.  
  
"We'll help you," he said, feeling a welling of protectiveness. "We will do whatever it takes to keep you and the people of Joliet safe, I swear to you."  
  
Sam sent him the sort of look that would have seemed totally cheesy on anyone else, kind of proud, but he wore it well.  
  
"But I've gotta be honest with you," Dean told Haleigh. "We have literally no experience with werewolves. We've really only hunted down one ghost."  
  
Haleigh smacked him on the arm, making him flinch. "Oh sure. The Winchesters afraid of a little werewolf situation?" When neither of them answered, she rolled her eyes. "Come on, guys."  
  
"Winchester?" Dean laughed. "No, we're not—" he gestured between the two of them. "We don't share a last name. We're just partners."  
  
"Uh, yeah you do."  
  
"Um, no we don't." Maybe she'd mixed up Craig's List ads, or something. Discomfort bubbled up in his chest and he ran a hand through his hair, muttering, "married, hah!"  
  
"Chill out," Sam told him and then turned back to Haleigh while Dean tried to pull himself together. "Sorry if there's been a misunderstanding. My last name's Wesson, and this is Dean Smith."  
  
"Right." Haleigh was still glancing between the two of them with a half-smile on her face like they were trying to pull one over on her.   
  
"And before this goes any further, I need to make it clear that we're still not sure ourselves that werewolves even exist." Sam spread his hands, speaking in his most reasonable voice, the one Dean always used to carefully avoid promising anything when faced with pushy clients. "I mean, it's not like there's ample opportunity to come into contact with werewolves."  
  
Dean nodded. "We're going to have to see these things up close before we believe it."  
  
"And until, like, last week we were both working at desk jobs," Sam told her. "But we've watched stuff online, and we seem to have a natural penchant for this sort of thing. And we really do want to help."  
  
Haleigh glanced between them again, and Sam shrugged. She murmured, "Oh god, you're serious."  
  
"But don't you worry," Dean told her. "Success is 90% effort, right? And it doesn't matter whether the thing is supernatural in the long run; what it comes down to is you feel unsafe, so we're going to get to the bottom of this."  
  
Sam folded his hands on the table. "Give us a few days and we'll find out what the problem is and how to deal with it."  
  
She scoffed. "What are you, an HR representative?"  
  
Dean nodded. "He was."  
  
"A computer technician," Sam corrected.  
  
"Retired," Dean told her.  
  
She covered her face with both hands. "I don't believe this."  
  
  
  
  
After Haleigh left the coffee shop with a pained look on her face despite their pledge to follow through on the dubious case, they cued up their laptops to the Ghostfacer tutorial.   
  
The dark-haired, skinny guy had a lab coat on again and was wielding a bible. "Next step: Research!"  
  
"Research," the guy with glasses emphasized. "Warning: this part's gonna seem boring."  
  
"But hands off, young Skywalker, is the best place to begin. You're going to do a lot of reading but it'll pay off, we promise."  
  
"You'll need to find your local library—"  
  
Dean leaned back as Lab Coat pointed at them from the screen and emphasized, "Don't. Go in. High."  
  
"Librarians can always tell. And you'll need to concentrate—"  
  
"—concentration is key."  
  
  
  
  
  
They found a shit-ton on werewolves.  
  
Sam manned the search, tapping away at the gross, old computers that made Dean uncomfortable. Yeah, he had antibacterial hand soap in the car, but that didn't mean he was looking for occasion to use it. Sam did the grunt work, too, handing Dean stacks of trashy looking myth and fantasy books to be flipped through and photocopied. Dean carried out his task with finesse, searching out relevant parts and plinking dimes into the copy machine in the corner. He was the researcher and financial backer of this operation, after all.  
  
They walked out of the library with sheafs of paper under Sam's arm. Dean whistled a little tune and reached in his pocket for the keys as they neared the Prius.  
  
Sam smiled at him over the roof. Dean rolled his eyes. "Yes, before you ask, I'm feeling less stressed. And yes, I still think this is crazy."  
  
"I'm glad." Sam looked sunny, and Dean noted that life out in the world, rather than in the neons of a cubicle farm, was doing good things for his health. He got into the passenger seat and didn't even frown when Dean double-checked he was wearing his seat belt.  
  
Dean's phone rang just as he was about to pull out of their parking spot. When he glanced at the screen, he experienced an ominous plummet in his chest.   
  
"Shit," he said. "It's my boss."  
  
"From Sandover's?"  
  
"Mr. Adler. Fuck."  
  
"Why would he be calling you?"  
  
"I may, uh. I may have neglected to turn in proper resignation to HR."  
  
Sam took this in stride, which was heartening. Then again, this was the guy who'd bashed in his desk phone with a crowbar. He said, "Are you going to answer it?"  
  
"Am I going to answer?" Dean mimicked, but then let out a breath, surprised. "Sorry man, I keep treating you like we're related or something. Ignore that." He grimaced as he jabbed the talk button, and then he lifted the phone to his ear, thunking his head back on the seat twice before answering.  
  
"Mr. Adler," he said, all fake cheer.   
  
"Well, hello, Dean. I wasn't sure you'd pick up."  
  
He was gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles were turning white. "Well. Well, here I am, sir. I assume you got my message?"  
  
"Yes, that's what I'm calling about. I wanted to say I understand—"  
  
"It wasn't the right fit!" Dean steamrolled right over him. Then, "What?"  
  
"Tell me. I'd like you to sate my morbid curiosity. Could you do that, Dean?"  
  
"Um?"  
  
"Where are you now, Dean? That's all I want to know. What has my employee of the month chosen as his big break from the lucrative path of Director of Sales and Marketing? What could have been so enticing?"  
  
Dean swallowed down vertigo. "Taking a bit of a road trip to clear my head," he said with a hoarse rasp to his voice.  
  
"Right, right. Now by the by, you don't happen to be in the company of a Sam...Wesson, do you?"   
  
This drew Dean up short. His blood ran cold like he'd been caught out, and he flicked his eyes to Sam who was watching him with concern, flexing his hand in a fist on his thigh. "How'd you know?"  
  
Mr. Adler's voice came clear over the line, like he was perched on Dean's shoulder and speaking right to his guilty conscious. "Dean, Dean, Dean. I know how it is."  
  
"You do?"  
  
"I understand! Believe me. Boy do I ever! Two young guys, out on the road, pursuing their destiny."  
  
Dean clenched his teeth. "Strange way to put it, but yeah, feels sort of like that."  
  
"Well, you two enjoy yourselves."  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
"You heard me. Figure out what you're meant to do, I invite you. In fact, I  _encourage_  you. And when you're all done, shoot me a memo. I'd love to hear what you discover."  
  
"O—okay."  
  
"Bye now, Dean."  
  
Dean pressed  _end call_  and slumped back into his seat. He looked to Sam, who'd probably heard his name over the line, and said, words impossible even though he'd heard them seconds ago, "He...was okay with it."  
  
Sam broke out into a grin. "Hell yeah!"   
  
Dean took a moment and then put the car in reverse while Sam rolled down the window and stretched out his legs while the world went by.  
  
  
  
  
  
Some terrible noise was scratching low over the jukebox and the people at the bar weren't really Dean's crowd. They were all dressed in print t-shirts or flannel, with hair just this side of wild, and they were nodding their heads to the music like they enjoyed it.  
  
Dean manned up, though. He rolled his shoulders and squared his resolve while Sam ordered a double-bacon cheeseburger and onion rings off the plastic menu, having apparently forgotten Dean's mini-health lecture that afternoon when he'd dragged Sam to a nice restaurant for lunch, and ordered him _champignons farcis au crabe_.  
  
"Salad for me," he told the waitress.  
  
She gave him a wink and said, "All right, sugar."  
  
Dean watched her go. Curvy. Sam cleared his throat and said, "She seems like a laid back girl and let's face it, man, that is not your style. Plus, you've got no game."  
  
"I've got game," Dean told him. "Plenty of game."  
  
"Sure you do. Nothing wrong with you that meets the eye, but you're kind of a tight ass."  
  
Dean pointed a finger at him. "Remember what I said about the health club?"  
  
Sam went red, or maybe it was his imagination.  
  
"Yeah, you do," Dean laughed. He said, mock serious and instructional, "It's my main base of operations, that's why you haven't seen my technique. Remember that next time you try to hit on me in an elevator."  
  
"What! I just—Dreams! I was having weird dreams, that you were in," Sam blustered.  
  
Dean waved a hand. "Like I said."  
  
"No, what! You know what I mean! About ghosts! Witches." He didn't hide his face in his giant hands, but he looked like he wanted to.  
  
Dean felt the warmth of victory at having adequately derailed the conversation, putting Sam on the defense. It was a tactic he used with angry clients, maintaining his good nature in the face of their awkward bumbling. He tamped down on that small part of his mind that noticed Sam hadn't denied it, that said when he was right, he was  _right_. And he usually was, right. Anyway.  
  
When the waitress returned with a tray of drinks a couple minutes later and a basket of Sam's onion rings, Dean curved a smile her way and said, "Thanks, darling."   
  
"Any time."  
  
He was at boob level, it was pretty awesome. Dean glanced at Sam and then back up at the waitress. Stephanie. She blinked down at him and said, kind of pitying, "Oh, you're actually serious! That's so cute." She went back to the bar.  
  
Sam snagged his beer, laughing real loud. "Burn."  
  
Dean slouched back in his chair. "Save it, Wesson."  
  
"No, but, did you see that look she gave you."  
  
"Did I see the loo—of course I did; I'm not blind. And besides, she's working."  
  
Sam caught his eye, holding back laughter with apparent effort. "Guess you're right, huh? Guess it only works at the health club."  
  
"Shaddup."  
  
The smell of greasy salt hovered in the air and Dean willed himself to unwind a little. Sam started happily munching on onion rings after dipping them thoroughly in ranch dressing. He made pleased noises with his mouth and sighed a lot through his nose, and Dean watched him space out while chewing.  
  
He wanted to explain Sam to someone, see if he really was crazy. Dude wasn't weird yet, save the obvious: coming to Dean with stories about supernatural phenomena and expecting Dean to run off with him. He seemed  _nice_ , for lack of a better word. Ingenuous. Basically, it could have been worse, guy could've been a creep, instead of this upstanding citizen with a heart of gold and a God complex.  
  
And things were actually working out. Yeah, Dean's friends were going to think he was insane when he finally got around to shooting them an e-mail, but Dean's boss was unbelievably cool with him having ditched the company with no notice. And having moved to Chicago just a few months previous, Dean wasn't attached to the city itself, so no stress there, either.  
  
What would his family think, though? His mom was the scariest woman alive, no joke, like a lioness who'd claw you up first and ask questions later. He had no clue what he'd tell her. She expected him to make something of himself, was the thing. He imagined the explanation, telling her how he'd quit his job cold to start a private detective business with some guy from the elevator.   
  
"Hey." Dean blinked back to reality when Sam flicked a bit of beer bottle label at him and it hit him in the arm.   
  
Sam waggled his eyebrows, which looked refreshing on his face, uncomplicated. "Thinking about the waitress?"  
  
He sipped at his whiskey, felt the burn on his lips all the way to the back of his throat, molten lava straight to his gut. "No, I'm thinking about you."   
  
"What?"  
  
"Not like—I'm thinking how this is like we're twelve, playing detective, asking the neighbors if they know of any lost cats we can take care of." He swished the drink so that the ice cubes clinked like rocks against the glass. He said, "I'm thinking—how fucked is this—I'm thinking I'm more freaked by walking out on my job and what my momma's gonna think than by the idea of hunting down a werewolf. There's got to be something wrong with that."  
  
"Maybe you fear instability rather than flesh-and-blood monsters." Sam swigged his beer. "I dunno. It makes sense to me; monsters you can kill. If you're planning on quitting, though, I gotta tell you now: you're not gonna get out of this without proper resignation.”  
  
Dean said, "I am...resigned to that fact."  
  
Sam groaned at the frankly very predictable pun. Dean knocked their ankles together under the table.  
  
"Hey, Dean?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Why did you quit, anyway?"  
  
Dean thought of the nice men and women in business casual that he passed on the way to his office every morning. He thought of the texts he sent out to clients and buddies, and of his five-foot, mini-golf lane set up beside the row of marketing textbooks for when he had some spare time and wanted to get some practice in after lunch.  
  
But then his mind's eye inexplicably displayed a diner scene: a mug of hot, black coffee beside a plate of strawberry rhubarb pie  _à la mode_ , ice cream dribbling off the side, melting into the pastry crust. It was a sultry slice of fruit ass the likes of which, to his memory, had never happened to him, complete with Sam scowling on the opposite diner bench, looking sulky and desirable across the table in a green, thrift store jacket.   
  
Jesus Christ, talk about weird daydreams. He cleared his throat and knocked back the rest of his whiskey in one. "Tell you what," he rasped. "Wasn't so I could suffer through your driving. You gotta show more respect."  
  
Sam rolled his eyes. "Like how, exactly?"  
  
"Well, when a guy loves a car—"  
  
"Ha ha, very funny. But seriously, man."  
  
Dean palmed his hands around his glass, thinking, and when he spoke, it was with a careful neutrality. "Adler handed me a slip of paper with this...with this five-digit figure on it. Said that was just the bonus. Told me to think about it."   
  
"And?"  
  
Dean shrugged, but when he met Sam's gaze he held it. "And I thought about it."  
  
  
  
  
  
So they might have had a couple drinks.  
  
"Question is—" Sam was slurring. It was only eleven o'clock. "Question is, how—what's the word?"  
  
Dean sipped at his whiskey, amused. "I really couldn't tell you."  
  
"Ummm...."  
  
"What?"  
  
Sam waved emphatically, earnestly. "The word I was looking for. How the  _fuck_  are you holding your liquor right now. I made you down like, half the bottle, and you're just there." He made wiggly motions with his hands. "All—all—"  
  
"Not falling over?"  
  
A pout lurked onto Sam's face. "Yeah. That."  
  
Thing was, Dean couldn't really say. He religiously did not drink, but now that he was indulging, he was drinking the hard stuff so as not to wake up bloated. He should have been hammered, but instead he felt pleasant and lit up inside while Sam, wrapping his big hand around the sweaty bottle of German import and making beer look  _good_ , was the one tipping in his chair.  
  
"I don't know, man," he said, at a freaking loss. "Maybe my parents were past alcoholics and I was born with tainted blood, a high poison tolerance. Super powers."  
  
Sam paused his vague swaying. "That can happen?"  
  
"Obviously not in your case. You had, what? Two beers?"  
  
Sam gestured to the world. "And a half! I...I think we need to go to bed."  
  
Dean stood, threw a couple twenties on the table for Stephanie. He lay a hand on Sam's warm shoulder. "Yeah, let's go, Sasquatch."  
  
"Don't exist," Sam muttered.  
  
Dean pushed him lightly towards the door. "You're a mess, man."  
  
"I'm actually really happy," Sam laughed.  
  
They hailed a cab back to the hotel. He made sure Sam was all right by pressing their knees together in the center seat. He patted Sam's thigh once, too, but knew that was weird, especially because Sam just slumped to look out the window.  
  
Watching the yellow of the streetlights run together, Dean wondered when this momentary insanity would pass, when reality would hit. It's just—he felt great. Really, suspiciously great. Usually, his life was made up of a multitude of stressors tugging him every which way, but now...now he and Sam were headed back to their room at a hotel. That was it, just speeding through the quiet night.   
  
Part of him knew he was just caught up in the novelty of trying something new on for size, something romantic which included weaponry and lawlessness, and that the fact of the matter was, he was just a dude with a hefty resume forgetting his life for a while. He would probably drop this soon as things got too heavy, when he saw that he had obligations to other things.  
  
He felt lulled by the rock of the car and warmed through from the hard knock of Sam against him. Their legs jostled together as they sped down the freeway. He breathed in deep. This life felt attainable and continuous, like he could have all he saw here, no strings attached. He heard Sam on every drowsy exhale next to him, and it was something simple, this existence, just him and the hot dude.  
  
He closed his eyes, rested his head back on the seat, and then opened them again to a mini-waterfall at the hotel entrance next to squat palm trees lit up by blue and white lights. The taxi had pulled to a halt, engine humming.  
  
He reached over the seat and paid the driver with a couple more folded twenties, prodding Sam in the side. Sam said, "Augh, Dean, stop—" and Dean laughed at him and left out his own side of the car, guessing Sam'd follow, but of course he'd go back for him if he didn't.  
  
Sam was muttering something about sleep as Dean keyed the door. The squish of plush carpet under his shoes was fantastic, it meant a stab at luxury and tumbling into bed and deep slumber. He toed off his shoes to the left and pressed the light switch and the room went low-lit instead of pitch black, illuminating soft, welcoming beds with cream duvets and extravagant pillows.  
  
Sam was currently yanking off his t-shirt and here Dean was, watching. But he felt realistic about this, too. He had a past, just like anyone else, an abstractly broken heart from which he'd come away jaded, so that by this point he was done pinning hopes.  
  
Just to be sure, he reminded himself that Sam was a lightweight and probably high-maintenance. He probably fake-tanned and lived on a pure-protein diet and wasn't as awesome as he'd let on. Sam had crazy dreams that featured Dean, and he'd already revealed how violent he was when they'd exorcised old Sandover's ghost. He'd had blood all over him that night, sprayed across his shirt and neck, and he'd barely even blinked. He seemed awesome now, but give it another week and he wouldn't be able to keep up the act.   
  
Of course, Dean didn't believe any of this. He just smiled to himself as he watched Sam walk on the back of his pant legs to get out of his jeans and left them pooled on the carpet. Task complete, Sam crawled up the bed and yanked the duvet over himself, the sort of lazy drunk thing where the sheets ended up on top. Dean breathed soft the whole time while Sam slipped his arms up under the motel pillow and shoved his face into it.   
  
"If you die in your own vomit, I will not be surprised," he said.  
  
Under the pretense of making sure this didn't happen, he sat at the edge of his own bed as Sam drifted into sleep. Dean was still in his jeans and woefully rumpled shirt, mussed from how Sam had slung an arm around his shoulders on the way out of the bar and then had proceeded to collapse all over him at intervals.  
  
He rubbed a hand over his mouth, his face, up into his hair. He forced himself to stand and do his before-bed routine: pants off, change into a soft t-shirt, wash his face with foaming wash, apply astringent with a cotton square, moisturize, socks off,  _done_.  
  
He couldn't find it in him to be ashamed, then, tired and kind of buzzed, at how he sat at the edge of his bed again to watch the gentle rise and fall of Sam's back, shoulder blades poking up under his shirt, arms tanned where they folded under the snowy pillow.


	2. Chapter 2

  
  
  
  

    
    
    to: craigslistresponse@list.com  
    
    from: xxxxbabesforu@excite.com  
    
    subj: you know what
    
    Hello my name is Beth and I am  
    
    looking for true love.
    
    
    
    
    
    I read your ad and feel a strong  
    
    connection with you already.
    
    
    
    
    
    If you are interested send me  
    
    an email with your pictures and  
    
    we'll have a good time.
    
    
    
    
    
    muah.

  
| 
    
    
    to: craigslistresponse@list.com  
    
    from: peachcobbler@gmail.com  
    
    subj: What an the hell?
    
    You idjits are really somethin  
    
    you know that? Phones off and  
    
    next thing I hear is Joe down  
    
    south finds you on the huntnet  
    
    he started up that trawls the  
    
    web for stupid shit like this.  
    
    I don't know if this is a code  
    
    or what. Gimme a call and stop  
    
    messing around.
    
    
    
    
    
    Bobby

  
| 
    
    
    to: craigslistresponse@list.com  
    
    from: anonymoust@hotmail.com.uk
    
    If you are who I think you are,  
    
    I am frankly rather surprised  
    
    to see your names pop up online  
    
    like this. But there's always a  
    
    chance that this is a secret  
    
    message. In any case, I really  
    
    do appreciate your help last  
    
    year, even if I couldn't express  
    
    it at the time. I'm stateside  
    
    again if you have the time to meet.
    
    
    
    
    
    xTamara

  
  
---|---|---  
  
  
Dean looked around at the dark forest, blinking, willing his eyes to adjust to the pitch. A few slivers of starry sky were the only light visible through the pines. He could barely make Sam out on the shadowed path, either, but thank god for his flashlight app.    
  
He crouched down and shone his phone over the ground. It was covered in prints, giant, bigger than a dog's, bigger than a wolf's.   
  
"Haleigh was right," Sam said. He knelt next to Dean in the dirt and considered the indentations. "Wow. What do you think we do now?"    
  
"Wait for the full moon, I guess? All the lore points in that direction. Full moon's at the end of the week, so...."   
  
Sam splayed his fingers near one of the paw prints and muttered, "Hell."   
  
Dean flinched, some real fear hitting him.   
  
Sam didn't notice. "What are we doing?" he whispered, and yeah, Dean was feeling that, too, that reticence sprung from reality, which was trying to edge back in. They weren't bound by any contract. They could back out and say  _sorry, lady_  and be on their way.   
  
But if there were actually werewolves roaming these parts, and Dean had no doubt now, then real people would die. There was a real and present danger and no one else to ward it off.   
  
"I don't fucking know," he said. He stood and offered Sam an arm up.   
  
Instead of moving apart, they walked back to the car like that, elbows bumping, backs of their hands grazing, not speaking and not tripping on a single root even though the night was eerie and unreal, washed in deep blues and shadow.   
  
They got in the car, kind of on edge and covered in brambles and dirt. Dean said, "So—" intent on talking about it, whatever  _it_  was (he knew what it was) because those were the rules of open communication. But they were silent the whole ride, too, the car filling up with what-ifs and whens.   
  
Then, instead of any words on the subject when they entered the room, Sam punched him in the arm and said, quiet but bright like it was okay, all of it, "Want to go swimming?"   
  
"It's midnight," Dean pointed out, but suddenly a swim was all he wanted. When Sam looked a question at him, Dean was already reaching into his meticulously organized dresser drawer for his trunks.   
  
Sam's grin was catching, and Dean just rolled his eyes. Sam said, "Let's do this." and strode outside, leaving Dean behind to grab the towels.   
  
  
  
  
  
The next day, Sam was asking Haleigh more questions over by the table and Dean was cross-legged on the bed with his glasses nearly sliding off his nose. He had a highlighter behind one ear while Sam was cleaning weapons and chatting up their employer. By contrast, the photocopied pages of werewolf-related material were conservatively spread over the covers. Dean had his laptop propped in front of him and he was feeling surly.   
  
This sort of research seemed like a pretty ridiculous pursuit, but maybe not as ridiculous as it should have been. He was mainly fed up with the amount of obviously false information out there, most of it based off of teen fiction and pornographic stories that seemed to function as a sort of wish-fulfillment on the part of the authors, concerning werewolves in human form, rather than how to stop them when they had fully wolfed out.   
  
Haleigh looked curiously around the room. "So what kind of weapons do you guys have? I mean, you are planning to kill the werewolf, aren't you?"   
  
Dean clicked through internet tabs muttering, "No sources, no sources, unreliable, obviously a prank," but only closed a few of them.   
  
"Werewolves," Sam corrected. "We found multiple sets of footprints in the forest last night. I don't mean to frighten you, but there may be a lot of these guys."   
  
Haleigh's face looked pinched when she nodded. She leaned in across the table to look at the arsenal.   
  
Dean was ignoring the both of them in favor of research, but he knew jealousy when he felt it. It was curling in his chest right then like a live wire at how Sam leaned towards Haleigh as well, not even glancing Dean's way. He knew he didn't have a monopoloy on the guy's time just because they'd decided to do this job together, but somehow getting Sam's attention felt like all Dean had been angling for his whole life; it ached in his gut and it strung through him down to the heel. It felt dangerously like a weakness.    
  
"All myth we've come across says that you kill a werewolf with iron," Sam said, spreading his hands all pedantic-like. "So we bought an iron knife at an antique store."   
  
She grinned. "Well, aren't you a smart one." She pointed at a blade they'd managed to track down. "This one? It's fancy, huh? Can I see it?"   
  
"Sure."   
  
When she picked it up, though, she must have cut herself, because she hissed in pain and dropped it. Dean looked over, pulse skyrocketing.   
  
Sam was by her side in a second. "Holy shit!" He made helpful hands at her, afraid to touch her. "I am—I am so sorry. I don't even know what happened. It shouldn't even be that sharp. Here, let me grab that for—maybe you should sit down. Are you bleeding?"   
  
"It's all right," Haleigh said. She was clenching her hand in a fist and pulled her sleeve down before Dean could see. "I thought I cut myself, but, uh, but I didn't."   
  
Dean calmed down with some effort. Man, he was jumpy these days. He looked back at his research but couldn't help glancing to where Sam was helping Haleigh into a chair.   
  
"Knives are dangerous," Sam told her. "I'm the first to demonstrate that. Seriously, I almost cut myself all the time, and the other day I managed to slice open my thumb on a butter knife. Who does that! Me, that's who. I'm kind of clumsy."   
  
Haleigh winced and muttered, "God, this is embarrassing. For all of us."   
  
"Oh!" Sam said, and Dean was kind of miffed how the forced cheerfulness hadn't even gotten a smile out of her. Sam was babbling, "Wow, I'm dumb. I think I just told you iron hurt werewolves. I meant to say silver."   
  
"Right."   
  
"So that knife is pure silver. Isn't that cool? Like, I never thought I'd have something made out of real silver. But, ta da!"   
  
She shook her head and nudged the knife carefully away from herself. Sam patted her on the shoulder and then said, "Look, let me handle the knives and stuff.  _You_  hired  _us_  after all. You shouldn't have to do anything."   
  
He smiled all dimpled and Dean felt a little heat blushing up from under his t-shirt at how cute it was. Guy was sweeter than candy, all 100% self-deprecation and good-will, and Dean wanted to breathe him in. Haleigh, however, still did not look nearly as won-over.   
  
Sam ripped open a pack of sour patch kids with his teeth to maybe lighten the mood. He tipped a couple into his mouth and then offered some to Haleigh, who declined. When he made to toss the bag to Dean, like he could read his mind, Dean shook his head no and looked back at his research. He had things to do. He wasn't going to succumb to Sam's tendency to feed him sweet things so that all Dean could think about was sucking sugar off the guy's fingers. Plus, caloric intake.   
  
The moment passed. In the background, Sam started asking Haleigh more stuff about what she'd seen and why she was suspicious, leaving Dean to reorganize their papers and get back in the zone.   
  
  
  
  
  
He was having urges, weird ones.   
  
They'd be having a conversation, which was already more intense than those he usually had with the guys he hung around with—they'd be talking and it seemed completely commonplace to kick Sam under the table. It felt absolutely within his bounds to lean forward and flick Sam in the forehead to get his attention, perfectly natural to pass Sam with a hand to the chest, just over the heart, as they moved around the room, public or otherwise, or to hip check him by the sink, even though before this Dean hadn't been a physical guy at all. If anything, he'd been stand-offish.   
  
Another thing was, he kept having to stop himself from going through Sam's stuff. Now, Sam was a laid back guy, so Dean was pretty sure he'd just laugh it off. Well, a few times when Dean had manhandled him a little Sam had given back, but that was par for the course. They were dudes. Dudes could make anything an excuse for a fake-scuffle, and if one of them happened to casually wipe ink off the other's cheek? Totally called for a headlock. Totally normal, nothing to see, carry on. But Dean was pretty sure taking Sam's stuff without asking was toeing the line.   
  
He read on a self-help blog he subscribed to that it was probably his search for stability that was spurring this type of overly-familiar behavior, his getting too close, too soon. That would explain how one day all he knew was he wanted a shirt, but it had to be Sam's shirt rather than any of his own. Sam had this one dark blue, flannel button-down that Dean could swear on his own grave would fit him better. It was too tight across Sam's shoulders so he just kept it in the pile of rumpled clothes in his bag.   
  
Dean wasn't going to take it. Sam wouldn't even notice, but in any case, it would be a complete invasion of privacy and also unjustifiably weird. He even went so far as to relocate Sam's bag to the other side of the beds to keep it out of sight.   
  
He started taking things anyway.   
  
It really stepped up a notch later that week when Sam came out from a shower and started throwing stuff around. Dean rolled toward the noise, emerging from sleep rubbing at his eyes to see what the commotion was about. One week and he was already off-schedule; he used to wake up at 6:30 and put in half an hour at the gym, leaving himself enough time for his shower and shave—tweezing rogue eyebrow hairs whenever necessary, all very normal—but with the way things were now, no office to get to, he was dropping out of routine.   
  
It was probably around nine. Sam was crouched over by his duffel, and Dean took a bleary moment to appreciate the way the towel slung low around his waist, the exposed cut of muscles that didn't even exist on normal people.   
  
Sam looked over his shoulder then, caught him looking. "Where're my socks, Dean?" he asked, like he knew.   
  
"Oh," Dean said. He frowned in confusion but then wiggled his toes under the covers and said, "Oh, yeah, my feet got cold in the middle of the night so I took yours, didn't think you'd mind." He rubbed the back of his hand at an eye and lifted up on an elbow to watch thin lines of water streak down from Sam's hair, down his back and into the towel. Sam made an annoyed sound, and Dean's eyes jumped up to notice his stormy expression. "But you  _do_ mind."   
  
"That was my last clean pair," Sam said.    
  
Dean was ready to apologize, when Sam's shoulders slumped and he sat down on the carpet.   
  
"God," he said. "Sorry, I seriously don't know where that came from. I'm not actually annoyed, it just—"   
  
"Feels normal to be pissy. I hear you." Dean knew exactly what he meant. "It's weird, man. I don't usually bitch at people. But when it comes to you, it's like second na—" But then he stopped talking, and also stopped giving Sam the slow morning once-over. Long legs, short fucking excuse for a towel, impossible abs and then—"Holy shit."   
  
"What?"   
  
"Did you—" Dean was staring. "Ha ha, very funny. Okay. Ha."    
  
"No,  _what_ ?" Sam crossed his arms over his wet chest, and simultaneously tried to tug the towel further over his lap.    
  
Dean did not have time to think about that. He gestured, a smile tugging the corner of his mouth. "The fucking tattoo. I am—To be honest, I don't even know where you're trying to go with that, but it's strangely accurate."   
  
"Oh, this?" Sam looked down. "Yeah, I got it back when I was in a band, right when I turned eighteen."   
  
Dean just stared at him.   
  
Sam sighed and turned to keep rooting through his bag, on his knees and still talking. "This other dude got it with me, too. Thought we were so cool."    
  
Dean didn't say anything.   
  
"Our band name was The—man, I'm not sure I even remember."   
  
Anyone else and Dean would think they were lying, fucking with him, but in this case all doubt went out the window because he could tell when Sam was lying, and this was not one of those times. There'd be no reason to, either. It was just another one of those coincidences, like Sam's dreams and the way Dean felt like he knew him, down to the core.   
  
Sam was still crouched there, muttering about the band, and Dean was up and over to him in seconds. The room was like three steps across, easy, where before this it had felt like miles.   
  
Sam looked up. "—what—"   
  
He put a hand on Sam's shoulder, flat-palmed and slipping down. Sam went still and tense under him.   
  
"Uh," he said.   
  
Dean moved it into Sam's damp hair, twining his fingers and tugging, unsure of what he was doing. Sam stood and Dean pushed his hands up his damp skin, pressing his thumb in a hard circle over the pentagram on Sam's chest. Sam grabbed at Dean's t-shirt but Dean shoved his hands away.   
  
Dean pulled off his shirt, yanking it up between them while Sam's hands fluttered uncertainly by his sides.   
  
"What are you—I mean yeah, but—" Dean could feel the moment Sam noticed Dean's tattoo, because he went rigid and shoved Dean even farther away.   
  
"What—?" He was kind of wild about the eyes. "I mean, what the hell?"   
  
"You're telling me," Dean said, and he was back up close and biting at Sam's jaw so sudden that Sam groaned and tipped his head back against the wall.   
  
Things got kind of awesome after that. Hands clinging unsuccessfully at the wall and his dick in Sam's mouth, Dean was instantly twenty-two again and getting off after baseball when he had shoved Left Field into a row of lockers when no one was around. Dean's legs had been on fire from practice then, his tongue had tasted like Gatorade, and he'd been rough like he'd never allowed himself before.   
  
With Sam it was even better. With Sam's hands on his knees, holding him in place, there was no twinge of a forgotten memory as there seemed to be with everything else about each other. No sense of  _déjà vu_  when he rolled Sam into the still-rumpled sheets minutes later, nothing uncanny, just Sam breathing against his neck, saying, "Hell. Yes."    
  
  
  
  
  
They spent three days by the pool. Sam swam laps and did handstands. He roughhoused while Dean tried with increasing success to negotiate the giant load of guilt that weighed down on his conscience each time he thought of the money and benefits he could have used to support...and this was where he was drawn up short. Support what?   
  
It wasn't like he had anything other than himself to take care of. He had enough money to pay the rent on his indulgent and stylishly industrial bachelor's pad, and he was covered for this trip. He had savings. So, being irresponsible affected no one directly but himself.   
  
There was the continuing fact that he was letting his family down if he quit for good, of course. He still hadn't called.    
  
His parents wanted him to be successful, possibly to make up for his sister's bohemian lifestyle. Jo had taken off during her final year of pre-med at Stanford to become a professional surfer and his parents had been pissed. They'd only rallied behind the dream once they saw she was making money. Dean sometimes picked up magazines in the supermarket and was met with a rocking picture of Jo riding a barrel wave in a red bikini, her hair plastered back with water, teeth bright as she smiling up at him from a Roxy ad.   
  
He realized abruptly that he was bending his book out of shape. He stopped and smoothed the pages back into place.   
  
He was reading a self-help book. He'd perused a couple, all the guys did. He'd edged his life towards healthier, and probably happier, by eradicating most carbs and putting value on self-awareness. This current chapter advised a more moderate existence, positing various forms of abstinence as the true path to inner peace.   
  
He glanced over the top of the book to where Sam was cutting across the pool in a lazy crawl, sun glinting off his wet back and head tipping to breathe every other stroke. Yeah, abstinence was out. Dean flipped to the next chapter.   
  
He tried to concentrate on the words that glared up at him with the reflection of daylight off the white page until he drifted off again, thinking about how they'd bought some silver bullets that morning at a novelty shot because maybe they could learn how to shoot. Maybe they'd be naturals. That was another sort of stress, but one Dean felt he could manage.   
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Sam gliding cleanly through the water to the pool's edge. He broke the surface and pulled himself up and out to his feet on the pool deck where he shook himself all over, splattering water droplets like a wet dog.   
  
He jogged back a few feet, leaving dark footprints and a trail of water behind him, in preparation for another jump. Dean watched, wincing preemptively as Sam took three solid leaps to the edge of the pool and then flew up impossibly high, yelling, "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH."   
  
He couldn't look away, feeling a calm sense of inevitability. He knew logically that Sam was about to pancake onto the surface and probably die. But he somehow wasn't too surprised when Sam managed this crazy flip thing that blew any of Dean's non-skill out of the water, not dying at all and instead submerging with minimal splash.   
  
When Sam surfaced, he let out a whoop like he was a frat boy drunk at a pool party instead of a depressed dude who answered phones all day. He swam over Dean's way, goldenrod swim trunks warbled under the water and his skin bronze-colored and shiny as Dean watched over the top of his book.   
  
"Where'd you pick up that trick?"   
  
"I have no clue where I learned that one," Sam said coming to the side. "But it was fucking awesome."   
  
"Meh, I'm not that impressed." He was.   
  
Sam flicked water at him. "What are you doing up there? Get  _in_ , it's not too cold. Show me what you got."   
  
"Nah, I can't."   
  
"Don't wanna risk paralysis?"   
  
"Where's my sense of fun, I know." Dean rubbed a hand over his hair, feeling self-conscious, trying to fight the urge to show off everything he had. "But really, I barely swim."   
  
"Come  _on_ ."    
  
He arched an eyebrow at Sam, who gave him a thumbs up and a cheeky grin with his chin resting against his arm. He sighed and slapped his book onto the table next to him.   
  
He stood up from his deck chair, and adjusted his trunks, feeling turned on and impatient at the way Sam looked him over like he owned him. The few other loungers were peering at him over their magazines, and Dean hoped he didn't get them wet. Sam pushed off to go watch from the middle of the deep end.   
  
Dean backed from the edge a ways like Sam had, eying the water which lapped pleasantly before him, thinking,  _here goes nothing_  like a tired mantra. He took what was supposed to be a running leap but what ended up kind of jerky and miscalculated, so that when he reached the lip of the pool to push off, his toes slipped. He had that feeling that often accompanies tripping, where the world falls out from beneath you.    
  
At the last minute, though, he kicked off into a turn that he hadn't even planned. He felt the spin of the world in a moment of glorious infinity. The earth turned on its head and then back again with the wind in his ears, and a second later he was dipping cleanly into the water, toes first.   
  
"A double backwards somersault?" Sam hollered when Dean broke the surface and could hear again, sputtering out water that tasted like sunshine and drowned band aids.   
  
He took a few long strokes and hooked an arm over the hot cement side, shaking and vibrant and thinking how glad he was to be alive.   
  
"Hell yeah," he said. He felt an disproportionate welling of pride, like a pool trick was his best accomplishment. "My sister and I only went swimming at friends' birthday parties and stuff. But I guess it just comes naturally, being a total rock star."   
  
Sam splashed water at him but it was five feet away and just for show. He paddled over and Dean reached out to muss up his hair, pulling at strands of it.   
  
Sam dunked back under and came back up, all of it plastered back away from his face, his mouth already smiling. He said, "The things you learn about a guy."   
  
Dean smiled back, wondering at how he could read Sam like an open book, thinking Sam Wesson was the best self-help he'd ever had.   
  
  
  
  
  
His skin was tacky from the pool and raw from where he'd dried himself off, rubbing his body all over with a soft towel. The second the doors clicked closed, he dropped their stuff just anywhere because Sam was hard up behind him, smoothing both hands down Dean's front to palm him through his swim trunks.    
  
The smell of the pool was thick in the air, and when Sam kissed the back of his neck, open-mouthed, the world went crooked. Dean could smell chlorine everywhere, the soles of his feet were still hot from the concrete outside and his eyes felt sore from trying to see underwater, but Sam was scratching blunt nails across Dean's abs and biting at his shoulder, so everything seemed positive as fuck.   
  
He turned in Sam's grip and angled so they were brushing up against each other in all the right places. He wanted to get Sam riled up. He put his hands flat on Sam's chest and said, "You know those crazy dreams of yours? Well, you're going to be dreaming about this one for months."   
  
Sam's eyelashes were stuck together like bits of wet dandelion. He said, "Man, I've already had dreams about this."   
  
"Is this that something else we're supposed to be you were talking about?"    
  
"I hoped it was. Never thought it would happen though."   
  
Dean rubbed at Sam's forearms with rough hands and wound their fingers together on his chest. Sam dipped his head to suck at Dean's bottom lip, and Dean licked the cool taste of water off Sam's tongue.    
  
That morning they'd driven out into the middle of nowhere, down the highway until they'd reached an empty stretch of dirt that went for at least a mile. The sun had been hot up in the sky and Dean had felt powerful when he raised the gun and pointed it in the direction of the plywood target.   
  
He'd squeezed his eyes shut and whispered, "oh god oh god oh god," until Sam had said, "Ready, aim—"   
  
And he'd shot the black X on the sawhorse dead in the center. Sweat had been rolling down his back and his face had felt clean and fresh and everything was in high contrast, the adrenaline shooting up his arms from the gun. His happiness was a hefty, blossoming thing.   
  
"That's what I'm talking about!" He'd shouted, his voice lost as soon as it went from him, the interminable rush of cars like white noise in the far distance and the big bowl of sky curving over them like a snow globe.   
  
They'd matched each other one for one, fucking up the target like it was something personal. Dean marked time by the darkening of sweat circles on Sam's grey t-shirt, until Sam, shielding his eyes and squinting out across the furrowed dirt, had said, "Dean?"   
  
"Yeah?"   
  
"I think this is someone's farm. That dude looks pissed."   
  
A swim, then, in their hotel pool, and sex against the wide bathroom counter, after an afternoon's getaway in the car, the GPS speaking in unhurried tones about direction as Sam flat-palmed the roof of the Prius with both hands and made loud whooping noises. Dean drove 80 in a 65.   
  
  
  
  
  
The third day, Sam tied Dean up with his red suspenders. That was new.   
  
"I'd make you wear your pinstriped shirt, too," Sam said. "Had all sorts of fantasies about what I'd do to you in that, over the copy machine," he said. Dean groaned. "Or on your desk. But I stupidly told you not to pack any work clothes."   
  
"I actually did." Sam stilled above him, mid-knot, and Dean said hurriedly, "What if we needed to go undercover?"   
  
What if he'd woken up one morning and decided to go into work? What if reality came crashing down and Dean broke gasping out of this thing they had, what could only be a lucid, waking dream. He'd need his shirts.   
  
"Awesome," Sam said. "Next time, then." He leaned over Dean to tighten the knot. Dean went to grab his ass and pull him down, but of course his arms were up over his head, he'd already forgotten. He was partially successful in hooking a leg around Sam's middle. Sam laughed and took his time, propped up on an elbow, the other hand at Dean's waist and pulling him close, grinding them together, their skin hot. Dean tried to kiss Sam's mouth but got his cheek.   
  
Sam'd claimed he was securing Dean's wrists tight like this, looping the red elastic and knotting it to parts of the headboard, because Dean had control issues; he said he could read it in Dean's handwriting and the meticulous way Dean cut his pizza into bite-sized squares and ate it piece by piece with a fork. Dean suspected Sam had control issues of his own, deep-seated and based in childhood trauma.   
  
"You need to stop reading those books," Sam told him, laying a sweet kiss against Dean's temple and then brushing his hair away from his forehead, fondly but clumsily, so that Dean had to turn away to avoid a thumb in his eye. Dude was handsy. "My childhood was great. All trips to Disneyland and soccer practice, all the time. No trauma here."   
  
"Fine, fine, I trust you," Dean said. "Just get on with it."   
  
"Orange slices at half-time," Sam continued, scratching down Dean's side and nipping his earlobe, saying against it, "Tree houses, the occasional summer by the lake."   
  
Dean gasped as Sam bit at his mouth but wouldn't kiss him, the bastard. He slid Dean's boxer-briefs off his hips and fisted his dick, saying, "Acing math tests and smoking weed, baby," only then kissing him, finally, until the sun went down.   
  
  
  
  
  
Night of the full moon and things got hairy. Past reading up on how to kill werewolves, they hadn't discovered much that would help them in the ensuing battle, which is why Dean found himself trying, with minimal success, to stand big enough to shield Sam from a gang of twenty-somethings in the darkened warehouse. He felt completely out of his element, although mostly because they all looked like normal people, and Dean was feeling awkward.   
  
"Uh," said Dean. "Hello."   
  
"Well, well, well. Look at what we have here."   
  
It sounded like the beginning of an action movie showdown. That put Dean's mind at ease. At least they hadn't stumbled in on a gathering of people just hanging out. Dean eyed them. They all had don't-give-a-fuck hairstyles, mussed, and ratty converse, and one of them was even wearing a Team Jacob shirt that looked like it was bought in the kids section of Target. They'd slowly begun to sneer and circle around.   
  
Dean squinted to make out their faces, but only one of them looked familiar. "Sam," he ground out. "It's her."   
  
Haleigh was among the group, and she gave a sardonic quirk of her red lips. "Nice of you to join us," she said. "Took you long enough."   
  
"You don't look like werewolves," said Sam, brow furrowing. "You look like hipsters."   
  
One guy scoffed. "Look like werewolves, he says. You don't look like hunters, neither."   
  
"Hey," Dean barked. "Dude in the back. Shove it."   
  
The guy scowled and said to Haleigh, "You're sure these are the Winchesters?"   
  
She shrugged. "I know it doesn't seem like it, but believe me, they are."   
  
Dean nudged Sam and said through the side of his mouth, "What the hell are they talking about, man?"   
  
"Beats me."   
  
Out of the corner of his eye, Sam was adjusting his hold on the gun loaded with silver bullets. It settled Dean's stomach. "You gonna change, or what?" he called over. "I'd say we don't got all night, but I guess we do."   
  
"You won't be alive that long," one woman promised. Her face seemed to stretch for a second, but maybe it was a trick of the shadows.   
  
Dean glanced to the window and clouds that had previously covered the sky were rushing away with the wind to reveal a full moon which hung like a harbinger of death. Or maybe not, then.   
  
The change began.   
  
It was just like Dean had seen in a dozen movies. There came the cracking of a hundred bones, a realigning of anatomies. Clothing ripped. It was not sexy. Clouds rushed by, more frantically, covering and revealing stars, and the wind picked up, rattling the crappy metal planking of the doors.   
  
Through all this, the light of the full moon blew bright through the high windows. Fortunately, this meant the people—creatures—were in full view, distorted and writhing bodies illuminated in blues and whites and blacks of the shadows. Moonlight glinted off teeth and Dean swallowed against the fear rising in his throat.   
  
"This is really fucked up," he said quietly, so only Sam could hear. "Really, really fucked up."   
  
"Dean?" Sam whispered.   
  
"Just stay calm."   
  
"I'm calm," Sam said. "You don't sound calm, though. This is no time for a freak out, man. All we gotta do is shoot some wolves, and we'll be fine."   
  
"All we gotta—"   
  
The wolves started slinking towards them as one. Dean had the hysterical thought that no self-help book had prepared him for this situation, but then they were being surrounded.   
  
"On the count of—" he said.   
  
"One," breathed Sam, hand fisting around his gun.   
  
"Two," said Dean. He took a steadying breath, then—   
  
"Sam! Dean!" They both jumped and missed the third count. Dean's shot went wild. It was too dark to see. The same voice shouted. "Get down!"   
  
They ducked, acting on yet another instinct. When someone sounded that certain brand of urgent, Dean knew to stop, drop, and roll.   
  
He shoved Sam behind a wooden crate and then rolled after him like a ninja, although he lost his gun in the process. He counted three shots in quick succession, all of which seemed to have connected, judging by the sick thwack of flesh to cement and the howling. That chick, whoever she was, really knew how to fight.   
  
Dean had his hand fisted in the front of Sam's shirt, and he used it to hold Sam to the ground while he levered himself up on one knee and peered over the top of the crate.   
  
"Get the fuck off—" Sam might have said, but Dean clamped his hand over his mouth and ducked down again. Sam's eyes glinted furiously in the moonlight. He looked dangerous, but they were on the same side, so it was okay.   
  
"Two dead, I think," Dean said in low tones. He was freaked as hell, somewhere in the back of his mind, but for the moment it was like all that really mattered was the knowledge that, if he wanted to feel Sam's sweaty breath against his palm for the rest of his life, Dean couldn't let him die tonight. He whispered, "One's on its way here. Gun. Now."   
  
Sam passed it over, and Dean, breathing heavily and controlled from his nose and squeezing his eyes shut, whispered to himself, "C'mon. Stand up, Smith. Just stand up."   
  
"Need help?" Sam asked, but at least he had the grace to keep the sarcasm at low volume.   
  
Dean didn't answer. He clutched the .45 in one damp hand and curled his finger over the trigger. He pushed up from the ground and, in one movement, concentrating on stance, his feet a shoulder's width apart and arm braced for the kick, he leveled the gun in the half-shadow and shot the man advancing on them square in the head.   
  
Sam jumped up next to him and pulled the knife from Dean's belt where he'd wedged it. He flung it in a flash of silver in the moonlight to sink into the side of the nearest wolf, up to the hilt. The wolf fell with a frothy sort of keening. Dean looked around for the third shooter, and caught a glimpse of her racing down one side of the warehouse.   
  
Dean downed another wolfman who was attacking from the left, no problem. He felt like he was hitting his stride. He smiled as he shot three bullets into the body of another, and then reloaded. He paused to look for the others, spinning the gun around a finger.   
  
Sam grabbed his arm with a hand that was like iron, and yanked the .45 from his grasp. Dean almost swung around and punched him, all adrenaline, but Sam kneed him in the gut so he went down. A shot rang out.   
  
Dean struggled to his feet, wheezing. "What the hell!"    
  
Sam looked like a robot with a smoking pistol in his hand. He gestured with the gun and Dean looked behind him. Haleigh, half-transformed, was bleeding out, her face blown off.   
  
Dean's knees wobbled but he stayed standing.   
  
"Was jumping at you," Sam said, on the lookout for more. "Had to—sorry about the—"   
  
Dean shook his head mutely. It was fine, he wanted to say. Knee to the stomach was nothing on getting your neck ripped out by a wolf.   
  
Sam offered him the gun, but Dean shook his head again. "Keep it."   
  
Sam reloaded with a thingy of bullets from his pocket, Dean didn't even know the name of it. They were in control, he told himself, trying to recapture the feeling just a minute ago. They were as gods. He caught a deep sort of growl from way too close.   
  
Sam blew four more wolves away and Dean shoved a crate over as distraction. Grapefruit-sized balls spun out and scattered all over, which didn't make much difference, except for the momentary shock value during which Dean retrieved his own gun from where it had slid off.    
  
He rolled to his back and shot a wolf that was leaping onto him. It died on the first tap and Dean was spattered in blood and weighed down by a carcass over his shins. He didn't even care, he felt kind of high actually. His life was a movie—porn and guns and McDonald's play place plastic balls rolling and colorful across the concrete floor in the darkness, complete with near-death under the carcass of a smelly werewolf.   
  
When he succeeded in negotiating his legs out from under the body, gun at the ready, the warehouse seemed quiet. He spun around in a few circles and Sam did the same, heaving breaths, their shoulders brushing.   
  
"Whew, what a work out," Dean gasped, clutching the stitch in his side. He breathed harshly out of his mouth and smiled while Sam collapsed against the wall, head back and laughing like a maniac. Dean felt shaky, distant. He got this insane urge to tackle Sam and lick his exposed neck and feel Sam's thighs tremble under his palms like they had five hours ago.   
  
"So much for going to the gym," Sam said. "If I'd've been doing this the whole time, could've saved a lot of money on membership fees."   
  
There was a crunching sound behind them, and Dean whirled, adrenaline pumping back up to 200%, finger on the trigger.   
  
"Don't shoot!"    
  
Dean almost shot.   
  
He didn't though. It was a near thing, but thank god he didn't, because this was a human woman who he'd almost—   
  
He threw up at his feet, hands on his knees.   
  
When he came out of it, Sam was shaking the woman's hand and sending worried looks Dean's way.   
  
"He'll be fine," the woman said, strangely dismissive of the fact that they were standing in carcasses and she'd almost been shot in the head just then. She was in tight jeans and a tank top, with two guns shoved into the back of her pants and a leather jacket slung over one shoulder. He'd never seen her before in his life.   
  
"It was you helping us?" Dean rasped.   
  
"That's right," she said warmly.    
  
"Sorry about almost—" he couldn't say it, so he just wiped at the back of his mouth and motioned with his gun.   
  
"It's not like it hasn't happened before," she said with a wink.   
  
Dean met Sam's uncertain look.    
  
They surveyed the warehouse again, all the twitching, steaming bodies the size of ponies slumped around the expanse of floor.   
  
Sam said, "In any case, we'd like to thank you, ma'am, for helping us save the town of Joliet from what appear to have been real, live werewolves."   
  
"Ma'am?" the woman said.   
  
"Sorry," Sam stuck out a hand, which the woman just looked at. "It's Sam?"   
  
"I know that," she smiled. "In any case, it's good to see you boys. Now what do you say we set fire to these wolves and make a clean getaway. Small talk later."   
  
"Oh, right. Good idea."   
  
The woman held a gallon container aloft and tossed Sam her lighter. He caught it even though it was so dark inside they could barely see the corpses.   
  
Dean took a deep breath, collecting himself. "Look, ma'am, I'd appreciate it if you let us handle the rest of this. This is our job, and although we're appreciative of your help—"   
  
"— _very_  appreciative—" Sam said.   
  
"—we can handle it from here."   
  
She was standing with the cap of the lighter fluid in one hand and the jug in the other, frozen in place. "Is everything all right?"   
  
"Of course it isn't," Dean said. "There were people. Turning into wolves. Jesus."   
  
"We're just new at this," Sam said, sounding apologetic, like it was their fault that there were people—people!—turning into—   
  
"Sure you are," she said. "New at werewolves, right? Here's a question: when you didn't respond to my e-mail, I phoned Bobby. You didn't tell him where you were?"   
  
"Bobby?"   
  
"He seems to think you two are undercover. I've been back state-side, selling the house in Lincoln, so I offered to track you down and make sure everything was all right." She frowned. "Your phones are off."   
  
"Oh, right," Dean said, feeling sheepish. "You mean my dad. About that, I turned off my phone because I was being a wuss about my momma. She's kind of scary, and I just quit my job, so. But I should really call both of them."   
  
"You know his dad?" Sam asked. "Ma'am?"   
  
She looked between them before saying what sounded like, "Christo," on an exhale.   
  
Dean exchanged a look with Sam, before hedging, "God bless you?"   
  
"How long has this been going on?" she asked.   
  
"Well," Dean said. "I guess we're more obvious than I thought. We just started a week ago, but we're getting the hang of it pretty quick. Turns out I shoot like a natural, my daddy will be proud to hear it once we finish up here and I give him a call. Nearly mauled by an honest-to-god werewolf, makes you rethink your relations with people, life flashing before—"   
  
"Dean," Sam stepped in and put a hand on his arm. "You're freaking out."   
  
She gestured between the two of them. "I mean, how long has—"    
  
"Oh, uh—" Dean scratched the back of his neck. The question was pretty point blank, even for an assassin, and he didn't have a real answer for her. "We actually just met a few weeks ago. So it's, ah, relatively new?"   
  
"Right." She looked nauseated. "You really don't remember."   
  
The rush of the fight was wearing off and Dean didn't feel like dealing with impolite questions. His head started to ache a little where it had smacked against the concrete when Sam had knocked him down, and his hand hurt like a mother. And—   
  
"Ew." He examined his fingers. There was a shallow gash along his pinky, probably from when he'd caught himself on the ground.   
  
"Dean!" Sam cried, from three inches away. He caught the hand in his and examined the scratch, intense in a freaky way.   
  
Dean flushed, glancing at the woman, who looked equally embarrassed. He tried to pull away, but Sam held on with a hard grip at his wrist. "Come on, Sammy. You don't have to, I mean, it's just a flesh wound, right? Better 'n we could've hoped. Although now that we're talking about it, I'm not too used to blood. Uh, I think—" He sat down heavily on a crate.   
  
Sam followed, stepping in between Dean's knees and kissing his finger, just above the knuckle. Dean's heart steadied a little. Sam licked the blood where it was trickling down to the sensitive skin near Dean's ring finger, and Dean sucked in a breath, because, yeah, kind of weird, but it was probably an overprotective boyfriend thing.   
  
Yes,  _boyfriend_ . It did get a little awkward that they had an audience, though, and also when, in kissing it better, Sam pulled Dean's entire finger in his mouth and hummed appreciatively.   
  
Dean tugged his hand away, feeling conflicted, uncomfortably turned-on and also nauseated. "Gross, dude."   
  
Sam shrugged and stepped away. "So I like blood. It's a thing."   
  
The woman looked between them uncertainly. "He overshares," Dean told her. "It's a point we're working on."   
  
"Don't try to change me, bitch."   
  
"Language," Dean said, standing, rolling his eyes when Sam hovered.   
  
"I'm Tamara," the woman told them. "And this would all be amusing if it wasn't literally the most horrifying thing I've ever seen."   
  
She ordered them to back off and then squirted lighter fluid on the wolf and human bodies in a resigned fashion, hitting the crates for good measure. Dean hung back, wiping blood and spit off onto the front of his shirt while Sam grinned like a jack-o-lantern and set the world aflame with a cheap lighter emblazoned with a silhouette of the British parliament and a 75p sticker stuck to the side.   
  
  
  
  
  
"Tell me again why we're heading back to Sandover's?" Dean glanced over his shoulder as he got out of the car, looking out for cops he was sure were going to come tearing around the corner any second.    
  
They'd left the warehouse going up in smoke, flames escaping the high windows in wisps and tongues as they rolled away. He had left the radio station playing the song it landed on—Zeppelin—because it fit the mood, and then eaten a few breath mints and squirted handsantitizer all over his exposed skin, in attempts to get the smell off.   
  
Sam followed the both of them out of the car and asked Tamara, "And why in the middle of the night?"   
  
"You said you started working there about a month ago, yeah?"   
  
"Right."   
  
She smiled almost sadly at them. "Let's just say I'm a stickler for following protocol. No one should just quit without notice. Think of the references! A handwritten note will help smooth things over. I simply cannot allow you to put this off a moment longer. And besides. It's my duty to see this through. Believe me."   
  
Dean thought maybe it was a little weird that she'd want to oversee them going to the office, like maybe it was a little condescending, but he was a changed guy, more zen about everything. So he conceded with a shrug and walked with both hands in his pockets with a tremor that was barely there.    
  
He and Sam both suppressed a joint shiver as they entered through the glass doors of Sandover's, but Dean laughed quietly when Sam nodded to the slogan that read  _Building the Dream_ .    
  
"Let's just get this over quick," said Sam.   
  
They waited to take the elevator up, Tamara standing between them like some on-purpose cockblock. Dean felt kind of uncomfortable that she knew they were together-together, so that was all fine with him. Sam, however, kept smiling kind of fondly his way, and said something to the extent of, "This will go fine. Stop worrying, baby."   
  
Maybe it was his imagination, but Dean thought he maybe saw Tamara gag a little. It somehow strengthened his resolve. In the face of adversity, and all that.   
  
So when they stepped into the elevator, Dean turned to Sam. "Speaking of—dude, we are so dating now."   
  
Sam laughed, but it was a happy, surprised sort of laugh, not like he was laughing in Dean's face or anything. In other words, a definite win. Dean was so calling his parents.   
  
"Yep," said Sam. "Sounds about right."   
  
Dean was blushing, but with good reason. He tugged Sam down by the collar of his t-shirt and said against his mouth. "And next time don't jump into the line of fire for me, okay? I don't think I could live with myself if I got you killed." And kissed him.   
  
The doors dinged open.   
  
Tamara took many steps away from them and didn't even look at them directly when she whispered, "I'll go this way."   
  
"Why are we whispering?" Sam whispered back.   
  
She just frowned and said, "Go to Dean's office and write those damn letters. I'm going to go do a sweep of your boss's office. To, er. To...to make sure he didn't...."   
  
She trailed away.   
  
"Weird lady," Sam said. "But a total badass."   
  
"Right? How lucky are we she showed up?"   
  
They set off to Dean's office, as ordered. Sam was smiling, brushing their shoulders together as they walked. Dean felt his heart twist at the impossibility of it; he hadn't even expected this sort of thing was possible. In the morning he'd be kicking himself for how cheesy this all was, but for now he couldn't even start.    
  
"Cool she knows your dad," Sam said. "You think she's going to tell him about...."   
  
"It doesn't matter," he said, aiming to sound casual even though the idea was freaking him out. "I was planning on calling them tomorrow anyway."   
  
"Really?"   
  
Dean rolled his eyes, but Sam's grin was contagious. "Just shut up already."   
  
"I didn't say anything!" They walked down the cool corridor, passing darkened offices of people Dean hadn't thought to miss. Sam spoke again, like Dean had known he would. "You're serious, though?"   
  
"Don't see why it should wait," Dean grumbled. He waved to his office door. "But more importantly."   
  
"Oh, thanks," Sam said, mouth flattening.   
  
Dean snickered and reached for the handle, although reading his frosted title on the door was an eerie trip between confusion and nausea. He was disassociating because his life had taken such a drastic turn away from how it had been, or so his self-help books would have told him.   
  
The handle turned easily. They entered and Dean made directly for his desk. He walked his fingertips across it, and nudged a few papers around. No one had cleaned up. It was like they'd expected him to come back. The windows were letting in all the bright lights of the city at night. He knew that tonight was the last time he'd be here, and that quitting was the right choice. He had to get on to the next thing, make a clean break.   
  
He held a glass paperweight in his hand, tossing it into the air a few times while he looked around, getting used to the idea that this was the last time he'd be here. Heck, he might never have an office like this again. The paperweight caught the gleam of light and his eyes fell on Sam, who was still standing by the door, watching him with a totally readable expression.    
  
"Hey, we gotta write these letters," Dean said. "I'm not sure how that makes—but yeah, it's probably a good idea, I don't know, I—"   
  
Sam advanced on him slowly, looking intent. "I remember." Dean glanced at Sam's mouth, trying to keep his thoughts even as Sam said, "I remember what you said about this office."   
  
Dean moved so they had the desk between them and said, "Tamara would be pissed, and that chick's easy to rile. She killed like ten wolves."   
  
"So she's not cool with gay guys. So what?"    
  
"Nah, man, it might just be your face she's not cool with."   
  
Sam stopped, and shrugged. "And here I was, about to go down on you at your desk."   
  
Dean fumbled the paperweight. It hit the ground with a clunk and rolled off onto the golf strip.   
  
Sam came around the desk without another word and fisted his hand in Dean's shirt because he was like a caveman or something. Dean may have whimpered but he pulled it together quickly, grabbing onto Sam's hips as he allowed himself to be manhandled up against the window.   
  
Sam went straight for the belt buckle and Dean slumped back against the glass of the window, shoulder blades going cold. He pushed his thumb over Sam's bottom lip and when Sam huffed a breath against his hand, distracted and yanking Dean's belt out of the loops, he did it again. He felt the ridge of Sam's teeth with his fingerprint and then slung his arms loosely around Sam's neck and kissed him.   
  
Sam sucked in a breath through his nose and plastered Dean up against the glass. Dean kissed the hell out of him.    
  
After what could only have been a minute, Sam pulled away and said, "Dean?"   
  
"Hm?"    
  
"We—" He cut off when Dean kissed him again, deep, curling his fingers between Sam's shoulderblades. When they broke for breath, Sam was smiling. He murmured, "I'd sit down if I were you."   
  
Dean nearly tipped back in the chair he sat down so fast, but he grabbed hold of the edge of the desk. A few pens rolled off to the floor and a surprise honking of a car sounded quiet and muted on the street twenty stories below. Sam's hands were on his knees in an instant, the office black and hushed around them.   
  
"Did you—uh, the lock—"   
  
He could barely make out Sam's dark look because there were shadows falling everywhere.   
  
There came a tapping at the door.   
  
Sam rolled under the desk because he had reflexes like a ninja, and Dean stood immediately, heart in his mouth, wondering who did that, hiding instead of standing up like a normal person. In any case, Sam was out of sight and thankfully Dean's own pants weren't actually undone yet, because that would have been the end of it really.   
  
Then, none other than Mr. Adler stuck his head in the doorway. He flicked on the fluourescents and said, as Dean blinked against them, "Well, if it isn't Dean Smith. Pleasure to see you after hours. Or at all, really."   
  
"Mr. Adler," Dean said, going for respectful but hitting the totally wrong note as Sam grabbed his ankle in shock. "Mr. Adler, I'm here to furnish my resignation. In person. By note."   
  
"Yeah?" Mr. Adler was smiling, which was disconcerting to say the least. "Why's that exactly?"   
  
Dean swallowed something thick at the back of his throat. "There's some stuff I need to get to—"   
  
His boss cut him off, which was fine because Dean was still reeling from how uncomfortable the situation was.   
  
It was when Mr. Adler started spouting some stuff about destinies and what-have-you that Dean tuned back in. He said, "I'm sorry, I'm not quite following—" and Mr. Adler snapped his fingers with a flourish that was lost on Dean.   
  
All color went out of the world.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean was thrown by a sudden lucidity that had his insides sloshing and his perception sharpening to crystal. He felt present, real like he hadn't for a long time, like he'd been taking some serious medication and had just gone off it cold turkey, for better or for worse, and he'd be suffering the backlash for weeks. And Mr. Adler was still talking.   
  
"All I'm saying is, it's how you look at it. Most folks live and die without moving anything more than the dirt it takes to bury them. You get to change things, save people, maybe even the world. All the while you drive a classic car and fornicate with women."   
  
Dean felt trapped. He wondered if he could grab some sort of blunt object to use for a weapon, maybe that paperweight shaped like a giant, fake diamond.   
  
"This isn't a curse, it's a gift. So for God's sakes, Dean, quit whining about it. Look around: there are plenty of fates worse than yours." Mr. Adler took a step forward. "So, are you with me? You want to go steam yourself another latte, or are you ready to stand up and be who you really are?"   
  
There was a clunking from behind them.   
  
Dean flicked a glance without turning. Mr. Adler clapped his hands. "And Sam! Nice of you to join us. Although I'm sure under the desk isn't as interesting since I've distracted Dean here."   
  
Dean cleared his throat but he couldn't even look at Sam, not full in the face.    
  
Mr. Adler offered convenient excuse when he started advancing on them. "Boys, boys, boys. Let me be the first to congratulate you on finding your way back."   
  
"What does that mean?"   
  
"Why, you've passed the test!"   
  
"Test?" said Sam, sounding as pissed as Dean felt. He came to stand behind Dean's elbow, which was a good tactical move but would have been more reassuring if Sam wasn't leaning away even as he moved closer. Dean felt the space like yawning regret.    
  
"Well, why do you think you ended up here in the first place? It wasn't just some office fantasy I'd been harboring, although you two do make for some good entertainment," Mr. Adler said with a creepy sort of fervor. "I had a load of co-workers watching the drama that was your life until the moment you split, so now I'm curious. What did you learn? On your trip, your little quest of self-discovery? Did you see the sights?"   
  
"Excuse me?"   
  
Mr. Adler eyeballed Dean in a way that was frankly uncomfortable. "And what choice are you going to make?"   
  
"Look, pal. Who the hell are you?"   
  
Mr. Adler smiled, and it finally reached his eyes. "Well, I'm glad you asked. My name's Zachariah. I'm an angel of the Lord."   
  
  
  
  
  
They got the  _fuck_  out of there. Dean's ankle hurt from when he'd kicked Zachariah in the guts wearing dress shoes, and Sam's arm was bleeding where he'd cut himself with a letter opener to fingerpaint an angel banishing sigil. The kid could take care of himself, though, and Dean was just concentrating on not freaking out before they got to some semblance of safety.   
  
"Tamara," Sam breathed once they'd made it into the street. Dean looked wildly to where she was parked, and felt a sick sort of nausea dredge the few things in his stomach.   
  
They moved toward the car, but he just kept walking down the sidewalk. Behind him he heard Sam open the car door and say, "Well, it looks like you weren't being homophobic." And Tamara's voice dwindle as Dean walked away. "There you are! You weren't in Dean's office. I looked everywhere!" Sam saying, "It must have been that angel—"   
  
Dean numbly felt for his keys in his pocket, but when he pulled them out they were the ones for the Prius, instead. He dropped them onto the pavement and kept moving.   
  
Only when he reached the street corner did he trail to a stop. He looked both ways down the drag, just a low movie theater going decrepit across from him and a couple shops closed for the evening. No pedestrians, only cars. He shielded his eyes against the blue glare of a neon sign and pulled his jacket tighter around himself. He was shivering and he had his jaw clenched so hard his molars were bound to crack, because this other guy's jacket wasn't wind-resistant in any way, shape, or form. Apparently he just walked around unprotected, even from the weather.    
  
Dean focused on easing up a little, just because he didn't want to worry about finding another dentist who was willing to work illegally. He was a dude with no insurance again, no records, no fucking ties.   
  
"Jesus," he muttered, resting a fist against the bricks instead of punching. He'd rather not have to deal with any doctors, either, or a busted up hand at a time like this.   
  
He heard a soft footfall behind him, and when he turned, Tamara was coming up the sidewalk. She had a hard look on her face because that's what they dealt in: anything but pity. Dean felt thankful for that, at least.    
  
"Stop being selfish," she told him. "You're making your brother worry."   
  
Dean laughed, though it was decidedly mirthless.   
  
"Here." She made room for him to turn and follow her back to the car.   
  
Sam wasn't in sight, which turned his stomach as well as washed over him like relief, like maybe he could keep his head down and hide from everything. He looked at Tamara for some sort of opinion, licking his lips before saying, "I don't even know where my car is."   
  
"It's what tipped us off in the first place. They found it in Ohio and Bobby had it towed out to his place." She nodded back they way they'd come. "I'll drive you."   
  
He tried to turn down her offer but he was just so damn tired, and Tamara was a familiar face when everything was fucked to Hell. Of course he was going to take it.    
  
"It's good to see you," he said. "It's been a while, huh?"   
  
She nodded and said, "It's good to see you, too."   
  
He felt clear-headed and despairing the whole walk to Tamara's Camry, but at least Sam was strapped in the front seat, looking surly. It was a shock, because Dean had seen a different sort of expression on his face for the better part of a month, especially after they'd started—   
  
The way he backtracked from that one felt like his arms wheeling to find balance at a cliff's edge, hard dirt crumbling off under his feet. He was going to have to start shoving those thoughts down from then on. That would work, he told himself. He'd shove them down and he'd shove them down, and keep at it until years had leeched the edge of horror from the situation enough that it became nothing but another lost chapter of the gospel Winchester.   
  
The back door was heavy when he swung it open and he shoved a duffel over into the footwell to sit.   
  
"I cracked the trunk of the Prius," Sam muttered from the front. "To get our bags."   
  
"Fucking angels," Dean muttered back, unwinding his tie from around his neck and ignoring the way Sam's eyes caught the motion in the rearview.   
  
He sighed and rooted around in his bag as Tamara got in and started the car. She gripped the steering wheel for a second before pulling out, saying, "I'm going to make it easy for all of us and say, you can talk if you want, but I'd be fine with some peace and quiet."   
  
"A-fucking-men," Dean said.   
  
"We'll get the gas," Sam told her. "We really appreciate this."   
  
She laughed at his earnest expression, but kindly. "Consider it recompense for saving my life that one time. And I've meant to pay Bobby Singer a visit since I flew in, so you're providing me ample excuse."   
  
"Thanks," Sam said again. "Really."   
  
Tamara nodded and put the car into gear and they left Sandover behind. She turned on the radio, which, once they hit the highway, took up crooning slow love songs and lonely ballads. Up front, Sam's knees bumped and rocked against the dash. Dean opened his pill bottle and swallowed a couple Ambien dry, and then stretched out across the back seat to wait on oblivion.   
  
  
  
  
  
At some point, he bobbed back into consciousness. He was curled on his side, with his arm wrapped awkwardly around his waist and the other tucked under his cheek to stop the lolling of his head when the car bumped. The fabric of the seat pulled harsh against his skin, and he couldn't kick the wheedling sort of conviction that life used to be a lot softer.   
  
Up front, Sam's phone was buzzing quietly, like they'd just gotten back into range. Dean harbored some uncharitable thoughts about putting your phone on silent, and backseats, and Sam being too much of a bitch to remember that Dean got carsick if he wasn't driving. Sam, dark and then blue and then dark again, lit by the oncoming headlights, pulled his cell from his pocket.   
  
_Thirty missed calls_ . Dean could make out on the screen.  _If you answer that_ , he wanted to warn, but his mouth felt like he'd taken a bite of cotton and chewed on it for a couple hours. And besides, Tamara was there. There was no point in letting her in on more of their shit. Better she see the paradise in their trouble, if at all possible.   
  
Sam flipped to the list of missed calls and scrolled, revealing that each name was the same. Dean was watching as he slid his phone back in his pocket.   
  
  
  
  
  
They stomped up the creaking porch of Bobby's fixer-upper at two AM. Sam had driven part of the way so he was strung out and awake, but Dean was dragging his feet. They moved into the hallway and he swayed until Sam dropped his bag at the foot of the stairs, at which point Dean took a casual step towards the wall.   
  
"I'm not going to—" Sam started. But then he scowled and shook his head, like he was pissed at everything, Dean included. All done and told, at least they were on the same page.   
  
"I feel like the world is bad touching me," Dean muttered.   
  
Sam grunted but didn't look him in the eye.    
  
Tamara sighed and led the way down the hallway. She hadn't mentioned it, the issue at hand, wisely and as promised. Dean was grateful, but they were going to have to give Bobby a recounting of what had happened over the past few weeks, especially as it included a new, scary-as-fuck angel.   
  
Dean was steeling himself to sugarcoat it and knew Sam would probably stand around silently behind him and go with whatever Dean's story was, but he wasn't looking forward to evading questions. However, when they walked in Bobby took one look at them and said, "We could talk about this now, but you boys look like shit raked over, if you don't mind my saying."   
  
Dean nodded. Reality felt sideways and off-kilter. From the way he was shoving his hands in his pockets, Sam was probably cracked out on gas station coffee while Dean's head still felt fuzzy from the sleeping pills.    
  
They didn't do much more than pat Bobby on the shoulder before they dragged themselves upstairs and promptly got out of each other's line of sight. Dean peed and splashed water on his face from the rusty tap, most of it soaking into his shirt, and then dried his face on some toilet paper and fell into the twin bed in the guest bedroom whose sheets probably hadn't been washed since the last time they'd ended up at the house.   
  
He expected he'd sleep right away, but ended up navigating a head full of useless, wandering thoughts, instead. Bobby's house felt like a cave compared to the hotel he and Sam, or rather those other guys, had been staying at. It was cool, and dark. It had strange echoes and probably the odd bat. Not really. Rather, it smelled of musty blankets and of old spice and of dry pages curling up on themselves.   
  
Dean was skirting the edges, no topic was safe. He thought of Tamara, how the last time they'd come into contact with each other, she'd lost her husband. He thought of how many financial reports he'd slaved over and wondered where they'd gone, if all that work had been for nothing and whether anyone he'd spoken with had been real. His witty adversary Renee in marketing. Bill, who he'd always passed in the lobby. He thought of how he was this close to losing Sam, how the things they'd done, when taken out and examined in the light, could be the undoing of everything.    
  
After a time that stretched into eternity, at least twenty minutes, he was seriously considering grabbing his pills again. Then he felt himself waking up, and he opened his eyes and, impossibly, it was morning.    
  
There weren't any roosters because this wasn't that sort of operation, but there were the same old morning sounds Dean had gotten used to here: a few cars rushing by in the far distance, the creak of the back door. He could make out the tinkling of spoon against mug and the clanking of pans on the stove, a low voice still rough with sleep. He swung to his feet and padded downstairs.   
  
There was some sort of egg scramble on and Bobby was taking a call, so Dean just gave a short salute and snagged the coffee pot by the handle. He poured himself some in a mug that said Go Bears on it, and when he took a sip, the coffee was gritty in his teeth and on his tongue. It tasted sour and maybe a little moldy. He grimaced and spit in the sink and then put his face under the tap to wash out his mouth.    
  
"Jesus." He went to stick his head in the fridge to see if they had bacon.   
  
"We're fresh out," Bobby said, hanging up the phone. "Sam's in town, doing the grocery shopping. He's been gone a long time, though."   
  
"At least he's good for something," Dean grumbled, but then he thought of a hundred other things Sam had recently proved to be good at, and slammed the fridge shut. He felt a little bile burning at the back of his throat. But at least he was safe, back in the real world now, where things were normal. He wasn't Dean Smith any longer, all uptight and set in his ways, and Sam definitely wasn't a dude who could be dragged to eat crab-stuffed mushrooms and who was indiscriminate in his choice of wall to shove Dean up against.   
  
"Well?" Bobby was watching him. "You look like you're doing good. A few weeks of amnesia didn't knock you out of your usual routine."   
  
"What?"   
  
"You know." He waved a hand. "The whole stamp down here, throw a fit about my coffee, and then go for the bacon. Next it'll be drinking straight out of the carton and watching the bread toast like that'll make it go faster."   
  
Dean looked at the milk carton in his hand.   
  
"What, you think Sam's the only one who knows you? Nothing wrong with a little routine, I'm saying I'm glad you're back."   
  
"Yeah," Dean muttered. "Thanks."   
  
"So, you gonna share with the class? You know I need to hear the story sooner or later."   
  
Dean swigged milk and didn't answer.    
  
"Fine, be that way, guess I'll wait till Sam's back," Bobby groused. He turned away to answer another phone with, "Sheriff Dodge."   
  
Tamara came in and Dean waved her to the stove. "Breakfast."   
  
She angled him a look. "All right, Dean?"   
  
He replaced the milk in the fridge while Tamara popped some bread in the toaster and then grabbed a spatula to scrape half-burnt scrambled eggs out of the pan. He thought how she had seen him kiss Sam less than twenty-four hours ago and how, among other things, that meant he'd been kissing Sam, less than twenty-four hours ago, all ardent and slow.   
  
He threw on a smile and said, "I'm just peachy," but she stared him down until he decided to follow up on it. He shrugged and sent a furtive look Bobby's way, but Bobby was speaking rapidfire into the phone. Dean said in an undertone, "Just gotta power through it, you know? And sorry about the—other stuff. Not something you should've been witness to."   
  
She went to sit at the table. "You know, Dean—"   
  
But a footfall in the doorway interrupted whatever she was about to tell him. They both looked to find Sam in the doorway, carrying three bags of groceries per arm. He smiled something kind of pained and distant at Tamara and didn't meet Dean's eyes at all, which were guilty anyway so it was better that way.    
  
"Morning." He put the bags on the counter and then made straight for the coffee.   
  
Even though they weren't exactly speaking, Dean held up a staying hand, prompting Sam to take a second, more wary look at the pot. He let out a breath that could have been a curse word, and then set about emptying the old coffee and mold floe. He rinsed it out well before brewing a new batch.   
  
Birds were chirping, perched on a rotted tree branch just out the window. Dean started in on a bag of groceries, and when Sam came up to help, he handed things off to him. Sam had always been more organized, anyway. He genuinely enjoyed the small tasks like vegetable triage. Dean just focused on the way Sam gripped each jar or fruit in his hands, and made sure not to drop things.   
  
They finished up, their silence thick between the coffee hissing and the rumble of Bobby's conversation and the scrape of Tamara's fork. Dean even went so far as to fold up the paper bags, all the while wondering how it had felt to Sam, if it had wrung him out like it had Dean, side-stepping back into this life only to sink like a stone.    
  
Bobby set about getting food but Dean wasn't hungry. He made some toast and then left it on his plate. He stared out the window and waited while the coffee dripped, eyes off Sam, who went to lean against a counter.   
  
When they each had a mug in hand, Bobby said, "Okay, that's enough of that. Take a seat."   
  
Dean meandered over to sit on the couch. He noticed Bobby's eyes went wide when Sam pointedly avoided the couch and pulled in a chair from the kitchen, but it made sense; Sam probably wanted to stay as far away as he could.   
  
Bobby shook his head. "So what's this about? You boys were unreachable for weeks, and next thing I hear is Tamara's found you with no memory of who you were."   
  
"And thank god she found us," Sam said. "We were surrounded by a pack of werewolves."   
  
"Yeah. We got completely duped by some chick who found our ad on Craig's List."   
  
Bobby chuckled. "That looked like some sort of personal's ad, if you catch my drift." And maybe he didn't notice, but a hard pause followed in which Dean's stomach turned and Sam looked down at his hands. Tamara's chair creaked on the wood floor.   
  
"What's important," she reminded them. "Is that you're all right. Worse things have happened. Much worse."   
  
"There's a new angel in town," said Sam. "Zachariah."   
  
"Zachariah?"   
  
"Another one who wants us to follow the plan. Blow the lid off Doomsday."   
  
Bobby sighed. "Looks like I've got a date with the Bible. Again." When no one laughed, he squinted around at them. "About this amnesia—You boys gonna be messed in the head over this one? Because it was me, I'd want to take some time off to get my bearings."   
  
Dean stood, because this conversation was past finished. "We got it all squared away."   
  
"Like hell you do."   
  
"We'll be fine, Bobby." Sam gave him a smile that was sincere, if wan. "Thanks for looking out for us."   
  
"We just want to get back to work."   
  
"Understandable," Bobby said, then nodded to Dean's person. "Back in your normal get-up? You boys looked like the cover of J fucking Crew when you stumbled in here last night. Never took you for a straight-laced yuppie."   
  
"Well, this yuppie's going to go take a swing at the brake pads on that Mustang out front."   
  
Bobby eyed him. "I hope you don't mean an actual swing. You've done some real damage out there." Dean just grunted and slugged back the rest of his coffee which tasted like exactly what he needed. Bobby shook his head. "Okay, okay. Deal with it however you want. Just don't mess up any of my cars too bad this time. You're gonna be the one to fix 'em."    
  
  
  
  
  
Sam took off to town again to do who knows what. Before he left, he held out his hand for the keys without a word, but then took a half-eaten piece of toast off Dean's plate without asking, too, so things weren't completely screwed.   
  
"I think I'll go with him," said Tamara, and followed him out.   
  
Dean didn't want to be idle, so he made good on his threat to check the brake pads and went to hide in the garage. He took off his jacket and slid under the car and got to work.   
  
When he was fifteen, he'd seen Bobby's junk yard as a sort of giant playground. His dad had taught him how to change a tire and the thrill of making something good again, and then, when he'd figured out how to replace gaskets, he'd replaced them on all the wrecked cars he could get into with a crowbar or a rusty key. Same went for wipers. One time Bobby'd come out to find that Dean had bribed Sam to go out with buckets of soapy water and wash every car while Dean sprayed them clean with a powerful hose he'd found coiled in the garage.   
  
Even though it had been years between dad's falling out with Bobby and the day he and Sam showed up there again, looking for help, Dean had taken it as unspoken that he still had the same rights to everything. Bobby could trust him to fix whatever he fucked up; Dean was good for it.   
  
So there he was, fixing the damn Mustang, nut by bolt, but it wasn't enough to keep him out of his own head. That was always the problem, wasn't it? It could be the sunniest day and he could get away from Sam but that meant he had to deal with himself, instead, and Dean tried his best not to do that sort of thing, not when it came to this. After all, he'd already made up his mind about Sam a long time ago, and knew that what he wanted and what was within the realm of realistic expectation ran a divide that stood light years across.   
  
The whole technicolor dream of what could be had really thrown that tired longing up in front of his eyes again. With every broken thing he found in the engine, Dean saw how much he had left to fix, and with every yank of the wrench, it felt like he was tearing out the stitches of some ill-sewn gash. It made for an awful feeling in his chest, one that he'd been shoving aside since before he cared to remember. But he wasn't going to think about it any more, not like that, just dwelling.   
  
He stayed out there all day, except for when he headed inside to make a sandwich, which he ate by the sink standing up. The sink was where he'd washed blood from under his nails after stitching up deep cuts and where he'd first really talked to Cas, but before that, it was where Sam had run to holding a bottle that was spilling over, telling Dean he was such a dick and to stop fucking with his beer, it had to have been ten years ago. There were a thousand other memories, too, all shoved in his head, all testament to why he had to fix this.   
  
Dean messed with a few other cars, in spite of the fact they'd probably never see the road again. When rain began to drizzle down, he went into the garage and tried to read a book, some trashy submarine story from the Cold War. The big, steel door didn't close anymore, so he could taste the rain in the air and there were small mosquitoes that wouldn't stop buzzing around. It was humid for South Dakota, and the pages were moist when he turned them. He felt tight in his own skin, with aches all over like he'd pulled something or fallen over a fence and was lying laid-out and bruised on the other side.   
  
He was just going to have to take some time to rewire his brain. He decided that, and then started laying down ground rules, out here, alone, in the safety of the garage and the lockbox of his own head. They were like commandments which he would stick to to the letter if he wanted to go somewhere not-Hell when he finally died again. The rules all began with  _Thou shalt not_  and ended with pornography and lewd acts directed at Sam. Dean rolled over and shoved his face into a musty cushion and tried not to think about exactly that. He was so screwed. He could do this. The two thoughts cycled.   
  
He napped. At some point Bobby came out and found him like that and made some crack about lazy mechanics. Dean flipped him off but then cleaned everything up real nice while Bobby stood around and offered silent company, not even aware of the half of it, how messed up in the head Dean was.   
  
"It's good to see you, boy," Bobby said, nudging Dean back to reality just as his thoughts had started to spiral out of control again.   
  
Dean nodded because, even if the sentiment was based on half-truths, it still meant a lot.   
  
  
  
  
  
The problem with staying at Bobby's house when they weren't on an immediate case is that there wasn't much to do, which meant that it was one AM and Dean was feeling seriously antsy. He had to get his mind off of things, but hitting up a bar to go meet people hadn't really appealed to him since before Hell, and the idea of waking up Sam to hang out sounded downright dangerous.   
  
Those constraints laid, he heated up a bag of popcorn and brought four beers out to the living room, where he settled on the couch to watch  _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid_  on low volume. It was a real classic, and besides, cowboys always cheered him up.   
  
Half an hour in, and the stairs gave a few deep creaks. He knew from the footfalls that it was Sam, not Bobby or Tamara. He kept his eyes glued to the screen, even as Sam settled in at the end of the couch instead of the floor, or even the armchair.   
  
They had done a good job of avoiding one another up until that point, Sam being gone all day and Dean sequestered away, except for that evening when they'd run into each other in the bathroom and there'd been a moment where Sam had stolidly tried to shoulder in and brush his teeth and Dean had gone with it, toothpaste froth slopping down his chin, ignoring the way Sam didn't seem to notice their elbows brushing.   
  
They could be good, Dean had thought for an optimistic two seconds while considering his reflection, but that had sparked the memory of how they'd almost broken the mirror in the hotel bathroom and how at the time it hadn't even mattered, they'd been too giddy and Sam had just wrestled him up against the wall instead.   
  
Dean choked on the memory and his toothbrush, prompting Sam to pound him on the back, all up-close and personal. When he had been able to breathe again, Dean'd spit and gotten the hell out of there.    
  
Now, Sam lurked at one end of the couch, only artificial barriers stopping Dean from grabbing out. Dean felt the proximity like static.   
  
After five minutes of mindlessly staring at the screen, though, not even paying attention to the movie, he started to relax. Which, of course, was when Sam said, "Kind of gay, isn't it?"   
  
Dean upended the popcorn into his lap.   
  
"I mean, seriously, " Sam said. "It gets more obvious the more we watch it." He kept his eyes on the TV, until Dean started brushing the popcorn onto the floor and he said, "You know you're going to have to clean that up."   
  
"Sam." Dean's voice came out pleading.   
  
Sam scowled and slumped further into the cushions. "Fine. Avoid the real issue. Because that works so well for us."   
  
Dean turned on him. "And what about you, huh? Aren't there some other issues you've been avoiding?"    
  
They were finally being honest, but it was just a scratch at the surface and could only fall short, ultimately. Sam bit his lip and made a conceding gesture.    
  
"Yeah," Dean muttered. "I thought so."   
  
And even though Dean was being a dick and Sam was basically admitting to keeping things from him, Sam still looked all appealing with his hair crazy touseled and legs splayed out. Dean thought of Ruby and of all of Sam's missed phone calls. He thought of saying yes to Michael and Lucifer, and the multitude other issues of real consequence, and how hard he had to struggle to get Sam to let him in on any of them. When you got down to it, this sex thing was the least of their worries.   
  
"Look, Sam. Not everything is the same as, uh, when we were those two other guys. Like, come on, stuffed mushrooms, am I right?"   
  
Sam shrugged and tore at his beer label. "I love stuffed mushrooms."   
  
"What? That fancy shit? We've never even eaten that."   
  
"Professors at Stanford used to take me out to lunch."   
  
"Okay, well...." Dean rubbed a hand over his face. "Look, never mind. It's been a weird couple days—weeks, really—and I'm voting we put this...this thing behind us."   
  
"So there  _is_  a thing."    
  
Sam was playing at casual. Dean responded carefully, voice low, "You know what I mean."   
  
"Just making sure we're on the same page."   
  
Dean killed his beer. "You know what? Let's just not talk. How does that sound?"   
  
"Whatever." Sam slumped even further into the cushions and Dean wanted to nudge their feet together under the table.   
  
They watched the rest of the movie like that, but all interest was gone. How could anyone expect him to get invested in a story he'd seen a hundred times when Sam was sulking next to him, offering him something that should have been impossible? All Dean could do was sit there and watch Sam from the corner of his eye while an elated sort of dread crawled his rib cage, knowing it could go on like this for years.   
  
The worst part was, he didn't delude himself into thinking there wasn't some chance. Sam had all but said it, right then, after all. But he knew Sam was probably just remembering the high of no guilt and a lighter soul, what it had felt like not to be Heaven's bitch for a while with a price on your head, mistaking that feeling of freedom as gay love or something like it.    
  
And besides, give it time and Sam would forget all about this. It had only been a day since they'd gotten themselves back, but Dean's real memories had already been enough to shove the fake ones mostly over to one side. Soon they'd feel like scenes from some warbled film he had indulged in once and then shelved because no way he was admitting to liking a romcom, and as far as he was concerned, they could stay sitting there, gathering dust.   
  
  
  
  
  
Dean woke up at five-thirty AM the next morning, sky light as a spring flower petal he noted, before shaking himself fully awake. He could see the air every time he breathed because Bobby hadn't rigged heating upstairs just yet. He was warm, though, wound up in a scratchy old blanket and his breath stinking up the whole room. Unfortunately, he had ended up throwing out his toothbrush in protest of some other guy having used it, even though it'd been him. Confusing, a gut reaction. No regrets.   
  
It was a sound from outside that had woken him, that much was clear when a car door slammed. He experienced a moment's unfettered panic during which he fell out of bed and then took a long stride to the window. He wiped away the grime with the heel of his hand to catch who it was that was making a getaway, but it was fine; it wasn't who he'd thought it was.   
  
He was still in his clothes, so he went straight downstairs and leaned out the screen door, calling, "You heading out?"   
  
Tamara nodded his way, shoving something around in the front seat, not surprised that he was suddenly there. Of course she'd heard him coming. "I've just received word on a hunt in Wyoming."   
  
"Wyoming?"   
  
She smiled distractedly as she adjusted a bag. "I've never seen the Rockies."   
  
Dean nodded and ambled over, even though Tamara raised an eyebrow at his flip flops, which were two sizes too big for him.   
  
"They're Sam's," he explained. He helped her load up a few handles of lighter fluid and a package of road flares. He kicked at each wheel and then looked under the hood when she went inside for her bag.   
  
"Well," she said when she came back.   
  
Dean thumped the trunk. "You got everything?"   
  
"I don't need much."   
  
He put his hands behind his back and waited till she'd loaded up the last of it. It was always good to have someone see you off, he knew, and it was the least he could do. "You know—"   
  
Tamara stopped with her hand on the door. "Hm?"   
  
"Mountains are a lonely place," Dean said. "Lonelier than driving cross country by yourself. If you need us to head over with you—"   
  
"Dean."    
  
"Well, all right," he said, relieved. Tamara had repaid them, he knew, and they'd had their little reunion; he didn't want to end up butting heads when it came to the job. "It was good to see you, Tamara. Sam'd thank you too, except that kid sleeps until at least after the sun's fully up. It's plain lazy."   
  
"Tell him bye for me," she said. She closed the door but before she drove away, when Dean was walking back up the old porch, she rolled down her window and called, "Dean!"   
  
He turned, crossing his arms over his chest to warm his hands in his armpits.   
  
She said, "It's not as bad as all that. Or it doesn't have to be, at least."   
  
"I don't know what you—I don't even—" He cleared his throat. "—all right, I'll keep that in mind."   
  
She gave him a wave, which he returned. She drove out toward the main road and Dean stood kicking at gravel in quiet wreckage.   
  
  
  
  
  
When Sam stumbled out that morning, yawning, tripping over his socked feet, Dean was just round the corner, trying to figure out what to do with the twisty metal thing in his hands that was left over from the engine he'd just rebuilt. He noticed as Sam sat down on the top porch step and rested a bowl of cereal on his knee, peeking to watch him take a few slurpy spoonfuls.    
  
The next time he looked over, Sam was drinking some of the milk straight from the bowl. He called, "You know, I still can't believe you lied to me."   
  
"Holy—" There was a clattering of a dropped spoon. "How long you known I've been here?"   
  
"Hunter instincts," Dean said, tossing a few wrenches in the direction of where they were supposed to be. "Get some."   
  
"I knew  _you_  were there," Sam muttered. "Anyway, it was angels. How does that constitute lying?"   
  
Dean walked out of sight and called, "Not about that, man. Jesus. The freaking french mushroom things. I can't believe you don't tell me this shit."   
  
"It just never came up."   
  
"In what way does something never come up?" Dean threw a rag leftwards and stalked out of the garage and to the porch, where Sam stood, putting his empty bowl next to him, like he was preparing to field some punches. Dean glared at him. "I'm around you 24/7."   
  
Sam spread his arms. "It's not like you ever wanted to talk about college, Dean. And I'm fine with it. If there's one thing that's perfectly clear, it's that that part of my life is behind me. And dude, you're getting pissed over a side dish, you do realize that, right? It's not really the end of the world."   
  
"Don't give me that. You know what I mean."   
  
Sam came down the three steps, as if to prove that even without being on the porch, he was still taller than Dean. There was a pause in which things got heated. Sam held his gaze like a challenge and Dean squared his shoulders and felt pressure build behind his eyes and down his arms. He wanted to do a lot of things, none of them nice, all of it so not okay it gave him double vision, that echo of another life which only jerked up a few notches when Sam rested a hand against his chest.   
  
"Sam—"   
  
"Shut up for a second." Sam looked out into the mess of cars, like he was listening.   
  
Dean listened too, and stopped paying so much attention to how Sam was touching him. There was a clanking from a pile of tin cans. He spun in place and Sam slowly pulled a gun from the waistband of his pj pants.   
  
Cans rattled and fell off the sides of the pile to clatter and roll off into the dirt. A few seconds later, something that looked like a limb pushed its way out.   
  
"Tell me that's not a hand." Dean was bitching, true, but really? Seriously?   
  
"No can do," Sam breathed, drawing closer.   
  
They watched an arm push out of the mini-mountain of unrecycled recyclables. And then a dude was staggering out, cans scattering everywhere. His skin was peeling and pussing from various sores and he was moaning.   
  
"Excuse me, sir," Sam called. "Are you all right?"   
  
This guy looked sick or was possibly a zombie. Dean grabbed for his own gun as a precaution, but he was just in jeans and an old t-shirt, and he'd lain his gun down on the garage tool bench.    
  
"His eyes are completely red," he said out of the corner of his mouth.   
  
Sam spoke up again, "Sir? How long have you been in there?"   
  
"Grrngghhh. Brainsss."   
  
"Well, that answers that." Dean picked up a rake and whacked the thing in the back of the knees when it got close enough. It toppled and began crawling across the dirt, reaching out scabby hands, muttering, "Brains."   
  
Sam tossed the gun aside and grabbed a machete from nowhere, shouting, "Dean, back!" He swung and the zombie's head snicked clean off to roll and rest against a pile of orphaned tail lights.    
  
Dean sighed. "Great, now we have a corpse on our hands."   
  
Sam turned to him, stepping over the body which was spurting greenish goo. "What did you want me to do? Just let it wander off?" He yanked a rag from Dean's pocket and wiped the fluid from the blade, muttering, "Unbelievable."   
  
"I wasn't accusing you of anything. It was just more of a general 'fuck you' to the universe."   
  
He considered the body and then squinted around in the sunlight. It felt like sand in his eyes, gravelly and high def. The bodies of old cars languished and spare tires stood stacked in crooked heaps. He still had no idea where they were going to go from here.   
  
Sam, on the other hand, threw his head back and laughed. He dropped the machete to the ground and Dean waited it out, until Sam managed to rein it in a little, so he could say, "Okay. Do I have to ask what the hell is funny about this situation?"   
  
Sam wiped at his eyes. "We just wasted a zombie like it was no big thing, and you're making what I ate in college a big deal. What the hell is with our lives, man?"   
  
Dean pursed his lips, refusing to give in and smile back.   
  
Sam nudged their shoulders together. "About that. Sorry I didn't tell you."   
  
It ate at Dean's resolve. He didn't pull away. "No, man. You were right, there wasn't a time for that to come up. And it's just food, you know. It doesn't have some freaky symbolism. It's not like I'd been hanging onto it as some sort of last proof that we're not those guys or anything. Because that would be ridiculous."   
  
"Totally ridiculous." Sam smiled, causing Dean's insides to do a slow sort of tumble. It was always easier to be angry than to handle this other, unknown quantity. Sam said, "All that aside, it's cool it means that much to you, you know?"   
  
"Huh?"    
  
Sam didn't respond. His mouth went all soft and kind of hopeful.   
  
"So is this it?" asked Dean, gesturing at the zombie with his rake. "What you—Wesson, whatever—wanted to get back to? This is what we're supposed to be, is that it?"   
  
"No."   
  
"What?"   
  
"I said no."   
  
"Huh."   
  
"But something like it, you know?" Sam's brow furrowed. "This isn't what I—what that other me—imagined. I mean, it sort of was, but it's not everything. We're closer to what I had in mind than when we worked at P.T. Sandover. That counts for something."    
  
"Well, if that dick angel's right, then we're always going to find our way back here."   
  
"Exactly. And you know what they say...one lone wolf, right?"   
  
"Man, I can't believe we were taking advice from the Ghostfacers."   
  
"Well, they did learn from the best." Sam said, but then he sobered, and the feeling of stumbling along a precipice returned to Dean's guts. "Look, all I know is that without Sam Wesson, I wouldn't have understood just how much I need to be here. I'm glad I was him for a while, and you can say what you want, but deep down I know you're glad you got to be Dean Smith."   
  
It was true, though he'd never admit it. He had liked being that guy. He had liked Sam having that guy. But what it came down to was he wasn't going to sit around feeling envious about Dean Smith's fake life, he just wasn't.    
  
"Even if some parts were, uh, great," he said, glancing at Sam's mouth and then away. "Even so, it's not like it changed anything here, you know?"    
  
Sam maybe ducked his head a little, which meant Dean was under this curtain of hair, they were so close. "I don't know." He brushed Dean's arm with the knuckles of his hand. "I think it changed a lot."   
  
Dean finally laughed, shivery and sharp. "You're relentless man. You know how cheesy you sound?"   
  
"There's a difference between groundbreaking honesty and cheesy. Also, I can tell you want this as much as I do, but you're doing that thing where you try to make a choice for both of us."   
  
"How do you figure?"   
  
Sam shrugged. "You're the easiest person to read in the world."   
  
He always had been smart, so believing him didn't even require a giant leap. He gave Dean the sort of genuine smile that would take a person made of stronger stuff to stand against and Dean just finally gave in and made a decision he'd been holding off a long time now, one that would most definitely crash and burn but for the fact that they weren't going to let it.   
  
He licked his lips and tried to say something but it didn't come out, so he went about it another way. He stepped on Sam's foot.   
  
Sam said, "Um, ow?"   
  
Dean rolled his eyes and did it again, meaningfully.   
  
Sam punched him in the arm. "Great, Dean. Way to ruin—"   
  
"Not out here," Dean muttered.   
  
"What?"   
  
"Not. Out. Here."   
  
Sam stared at him. Dean raised an eyebrow.    
  
"Just get inside, would you?" He tried to at once emphasize each word and hide it in a grumble, because if there was anything more embarrassing than being a suspender-wearing, corporate tool with a Prius, who lived on maple syrup-lemonade, it was earnest displays of emotion.    
  
Sam was looking pleased now that he'd caught him at it. "Oh, I'll get inside," he tried to say all sultry-like.   
  
Dean muttered something disparaging about his general person but followed immediately when Sam basically skipped in through the creaky, spring back door and up into the house.


End file.
